Article,Summary
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","Second Secretary Magnan will be away from the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education (MUDDLE) for two weeks, leaving Retief in charge. Magnan reminds Retief that his role is to act as a rubber stamp, continuing Magnan’s actions. Magnan points out that Retief should appreciate that Bogan is participating in the Exchange Program. Its participation might be a step toward sublimating their aggression into more cultivated channels. The Bogans are sending two thousand students to d’Land as exchange students, and Magnan thinks this might end their aggression and bring them into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Retief wonders aloud what the students will study in such a poor, industrial land. Magnan points out that this is none of Retief’s concern and that his role is simply to facilitate bringing the two groups together. When Miss Furkle, the secretary, buzzes Magnan that the bucolic person from Lovenbroy is there again, Magnan pushes the meeting off onto Retief.The person from Lovenbroy is named Hank Arapoulous. He is a farmer and tells Retief that the Bacchus vines that they use to make their wine mature every twelve years and that this year is a harvest year, but they are short on workers to harvest the grapes. They have a shortage of workers for the harvest due to their conflict over strip mining and the loss of several of their young men in the battles to prevent it. Also, Lovenbroy had to borrow money from Croanie, and the loan was due. The wine crop will put them in the clear if they can harvest it. The biggest concern is what Croanie will do with the land if they can’t pay the loan; Lovenbroy has offered half its grape acreage as security for the loan it received. Hank asks Retief for a loan, but Retief tells him that MEDDLE’s role is only for transportation. Hank says he also checked with the Labor Office, but it only offered to set them up with machinery. Retief attends a council meeting and learns that Croanie will receive a shipment of strip mining equipment. A spokesman for the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations’ General Economies (SCROUNGE) indicates he has been trying to get mining equipment for d’Land. He tells Retief that Boge is a troublemaker, so all the agencies in the Corps are trying to appease her. Upon further discussion, Retief learns that d’Land doesn’t have a university for the exchange students to attend, just a technical college that would be overwhelmed to receive 200, much less 2,000, students. Retief also learns that all the exchange students are males, and their “luggage” is full of weapons. He diverts their luggage and sends the exchange students to Lovenbroy, where they help harvest the grapes. Retief is also sent to Lovenbroy for exceeding his authority. Hank tells Retief that he has won the prize for the picking competition. The prize is a girl named Delinda."
"<s>   CULTURAL EXCHANGE     BY KEITH LAUMER     It was a simple student exchange—but     Retief gave them more of     an education than they expected!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents.     That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit.     I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.     In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear.     I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels.     I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation.     Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.     Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety.     Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.     A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle?     That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.     This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.     If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said.     Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton.     Send the bucolic person in.  <doc-sep>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—     Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.     I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid.     Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—     You hocked the vineyards?     Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.     On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat....     What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—     Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players—     Can they pick grapes?     Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office?     Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves.     The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.     You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.     Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know.      II     As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table.     Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting?     Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.     Drill rigs, that sort of thing?     Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities?     Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon—     That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.     Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—     SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm.     That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head.     What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution.     University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.     Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?     Two thousand students? Hah! Two      hundred     students would overtax thefacilities of the college.     I wonder if the Bogans know that?     The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away.  <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  <doc-sep></s>","The Bogans are people who have a history of aggression within the Nicodemean Cluster. In the last twenty years, they have launched four military campaigns against other Galaxy members; because of this, they are known as the Hoodlums of the Nicodemean Cluster. They have agreed to send 2,000 of their students to participate in the Exchange Program in d’Land that the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education is facilitating. This agreement is a curiosity to Retief because d’Land is a poor, industrial society, so he wonders what the Bogans will study there. His superior, Second Secretary Magnan, tells him that is none of his business and to be sure not to antagonize the Bogan representative. According to the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Underdeveloped Nations’ General Economies (SCROUNGE) committeeman, every agency in the Corps is trying to appease Boge since Boge is a well-known troublemaker. He also informs Retief that d’Land has no universities, just an under-endowed technical college that could not handle 200, much less 2,000, exchange students. He also tells Retief that most of d’Land’s problems result from an unwise trade agreement that it made with Boge. Retief meets Karsh, a Scoutmaster who trained the Bogan students; he made it like a game but says they know how to handle a CSU. As the Bogan students come through Customs and see Mr. Karsh, they snap to attention. Mr. Karsh refuses to let the students leave the airport. Retief notices that all the exchange students are males, and Karsh tells him they wanted to see how the first group of students was received before sending any females. Retief realizes that Bogan students are headed to a place that has no classrooms for the students. In the meantime, the tractors are being sent to Croanie, a world under obligation to Boge, and Croanie holds the mortgage to the best vineyards in Lovenbroy. Retief looks up the tractors that are being sent to Croanie and discovers they are armored vehicles with a half-megaton per second firepower. Retief learns that these continental siege units are ultimately being sent to Lovenbroy, which is rich in minerals, on behalf of Boge. Retief also learns that Boge has an application to send another 2,000 students to Croanie and is considering sending 2,000 more to Featherweight. Retief learns that Boge tried to take over Lovenbroy several years earlier and would have succeeded if not for bad luck. Retief calls a friend who works in transport and learns that the Bogan students’ luggage is all being sent to Lovenbroy, and when he looked in the luggage, it was all weapons. Retief diverts the luggage and sends the students on to Lovenbroy to help with the grape harvest for the vineyards. He impounds the luggage full of weapons."
"<s>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—     Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.     I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid.     Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—     You hocked the vineyards?     Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.     On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat....     What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—     Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players—     Can they pick grapes?     Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office?     Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves.     The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.     You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.     Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know.      II     As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table.     Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting?     Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.     Drill rigs, that sort of thing?     Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities?     Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon—     That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.     Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—     SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm.     That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head.     What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution.     University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.     Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?     Two thousand students? Hah! Two      hundred     students would overtax thefacilities of the college.     I wonder if the Bogans know that?     The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away.  <doc-sep>A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.     Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.     That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down.     What can I do for you? Retief said.     You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?     No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—     Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in?     Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief.     It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—     Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture—     I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work.     Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know....     You say it's time now for the wine crop?     That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year.  <doc-sep>At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all.     Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.     What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened?     He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said.     You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it.     Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with.     I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard.     Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group.     Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head.     We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel.     Gulver opened his mouth.     I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications.     Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy.     Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave.     Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted.     He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy.     Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I....     I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage.     Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it.     By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land.     D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies!     But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect?     That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange—     His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver.     They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education.      V     Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved.     Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record!     Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start.     In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous.     Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us.     Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again.     That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome.     I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority.     Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it.     No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience.     Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd.     Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize.     Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us?     I had a special assignment.     Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize.     Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize.   <doc-sep></s>","Hank Arapoulousis is first described as a “bucolic person from Lovenbroy.” He is a farmer, tall with bronze skin and gray hair, who comes to MUDDLE’s office to discuss the harvest problems in Lovenbroy. They grow Bacchus vines, which only mature once every twelve years. This year is a harvest year, but they don’t have enough people to harvest the grapes. Arapoulousis explains to Retief that a few years ago, Boge landed a force on Lovenbroy to try to mine their minerals by strip-mining. Lovenbroy fought back for a year but lost a lot of its men. This created financial problems, so Lovenbroy borrowed money from Croanie, mortgaging its crops. The loan is due, and the wine crop will cover the loan amount, but they don’t have enough people to harvest the grapes. He is worried that if they don’t have a great harvest, Croanie will come in and start mining. Also, if they default on the loan, Croanie will hold half of the grape acreage that they used to secure the loan. Arapoulousis has also asked for help from the Labor Office, but they only offered to send them machinery, and machines cannot harvest the grapes. He returns to see Retief the following day to find out if Retief has discovered a way to help. When Mr. Karsh makes a scene about the missing luggage for the exchange students, Retief has Arapoulousis take Karsh away and “take care of him.” When they return, Karsh is stumbling and needs support to stand up. Arapoulousis explains that Karsh fell. Retief sends the exchange students to Lovenbroy with Arapoulousis to help with the harvest. As the harvest is winding down, Arapoulousis tells Retief that Retief has won the award for the picking competition. Arapoulousis is also the person who judges the wine contest."
"<s>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—     Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.     I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid.     Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—     You hocked the vineyards?     Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.     On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat....     What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—     Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players—     Can they pick grapes?     Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office?     Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves.     The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.     You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.     Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know.      II     As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table.     Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting?     Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.     Drill rigs, that sort of thing?     Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities?     Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon—     That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.     Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—     SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm.     That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head.     What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution.     University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.     Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?     Two thousand students? Hah! Two      hundred     students would overtax thefacilities of the college.     I wonder if the Bogans know that?     The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away.  <doc-sep>   CULTURAL EXCHANGE     BY KEITH LAUMER     It was a simple student exchange—but     Retief gave them more of     an education than they expected!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents.     That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit.     I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.     In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear.     I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels.     I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation.     Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.     Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety.     Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.     A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle?     That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.     This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.     If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said.     Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton.     Send the bucolic person in.  <doc-sep>At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all.     Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.     What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened?     He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said.     You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it.     Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with.     I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard.     Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group.     Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head.     We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel.     Gulver opened his mouth.     I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications.     Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy.     Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave.     Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted.     He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy.     Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I....     I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage.     Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it.     By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land.     D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies!     But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect?     That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange—     His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver.     They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education.      V     Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved.     Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record!     Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start.     In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous.     Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us.     Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again.     That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome.     I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority.     Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it.     No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience.     Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd.     Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize.     Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us?     I had a special assignment.     Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize.     Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize.   <doc-sep></s>","Lovenbroy is one of the members of the Nicodemean Cluster and part of the cultural life of the Galaxy. Lovenbroy is known for its exquisite wines produced from the Bacchus vines, which only mature once every twelve years. Lovenbroy is important for the Galaxy culture because, during the time when it is not raising and harvesting grapes and other crops, it makes important cultural contributions. They have created parks and farms and left sizable forests for hunting. They offer skiing, bob-sledding, and ice skating in the spring while it is still cold. They also create fine furniture, sculpture, and art. During the summer, they offer beach parties, drama, and symphonies. The land is full of minerals, which led Boge to land a force to strip-mine some of the resources. Lovenbroy fought back, but it took a year, and it lost many men. This has left Lovenbroy short-handed for this year’s grape harvest. It also took a financial toll on Lovenbroy, and it had to borrow money from Croanie, mortgage its crops, and export its artwork. The loan is due during the harvest year, and without enough men to pick the grapes, Croanie will come in and take over half the vineyard land and mine it. Croanie is under obligation to Boge, and Boge is behind the scheme of sending “exchange students” supposedly to d’Land but really to Lovenbroy to take its minerals. "
"<s>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—     Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.     I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid.     Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—     You hocked the vineyards?     Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.     On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat....     What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—     Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players—     Can they pick grapes?     Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office?     Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves.     The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.     You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.     Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know.      II     As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table.     Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting?     Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.     Drill rigs, that sort of thing?     Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities?     Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon—     That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.     Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—     SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm.     That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head.     What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution.     University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.     Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?     Two thousand students? Hah! Two      hundred     students would overtax thefacilities of the college.     I wonder if the Bogans know that?     The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away.  <doc-sep>At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out.     Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact?     The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.     Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking—     You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up!     We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon.     Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey.     We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.     Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.     Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now?     Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.     Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.     Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers.     Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents?     Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received.     Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.     Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor?     Why, the University at d'Land, of course.     Would that be the Technical College?     Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails.     Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense.     Mr. Magnan never—     For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy.     Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!     About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?     Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways—     I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can.  <doc-sep>   CULTURAL EXCHANGE     BY KEITH LAUMER     It was a simple student exchange—but     Retief gave them more of     an education than they expected!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents.     That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit.     I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.     In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear.     I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels.     I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation.     Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.     Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety.     Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.     A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle?     That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.     This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.     If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said.     Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton.     Send the bucolic person in.  <doc-sep></s>","Croanie is a member of the Nicodemean Cluster of the Galaxy and is an associate of Boge, a member known to be a troublemaker. They tried to steal minerals from Lovenbroy earlier by attacking them. Croanie is under obligation to Boge. Croanie is the world that gave Lovenbroy a loan when it needed money to help tide it over until its next grape harvest. Croanie gave Lovenbroy a mortgage on its crops and holds a security interest in half of the grape acreage that it will acquire if Lovenbroy cannot meet the loan payment that is coming due. This is the reason that Hank Arapoulous goes to MEDDLE and asks for help obtaining workers to go to Lovenbroy and harvest the crop. It also turns out that Croanie is involved in Boge’s efforts to attack Lovenbroy and gain access to its minerals. Mr. Whaffle reveals to Retief that Croanie is set to receive a shipment of heavy mining equipment, but Croanie is best known for its oceans and fishing and has no ore. In addition, when the Bogan exchange students arrive without their luggage, Mr. Karsh says their luggage is coming from Croanie. When their luggage does arrive, it is full of weapons. The “tractors” that are being shipped to Croanie are really armored vehicles that are continental siege units that carry four men and have a half-megaton/second firepower. Mr. Whaffle reveals that the tractors are for transshipment and that Croanie is in a difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise, with Boge. There is also an application for 2,000 more “exchange students” to be sent to Croanie."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>An hour later, Nitworth, breathing freely again, glowered across hisdesk at Retief and Magnan.     This entire affair, he rumbled, has made me appear to be a fool!     But we who are privileged to serve on your staff already know just howclever you are, Magnan burbled.     Nitworth purpled. You're skirting insolence, Magnan, he roared. Whywas I not informed of the arrangements? What was I to assume at thesight of eighty-five war vessels over my headquarters, unannounced?     We tried to get through, but our wavelengths—     Bah! Sterner souls than I would have quailed at the spectacle!     Oh, you were perfectly justified in panicking—     I did      not     panic! Nitworth bellowed. I merely adjusted to theapparent circumstances. Now, I'm of two minds as to the advisability ofthis foreign legion idea of yours. Still, it may have merit. I believethe wisest course would be to dispatch them on a long training cruisein an uninhabited sector of space—     The office windows rattled. What the devil! Nitworth turned, staredout at the ramp where a Qornt ship rose slowly on a column of pale bluelight. The vibration increased as a second ship lifted, then a third.     Nitworth whirled on Magnan. What's this! Who ordered these recruits toembark without my permission?     I took the liberty of giving them an errand to run, Mr. Secretary,Retief said. There was that little matter of the Groaci infiltratingthe Sirenian System. I sent the boys off to handle it.     Call them back at once!     I'm afraid that won't be possible. They're under orders to maintaintotal communications silence until completion of the mission.     Nitworth drummed his fingers on the desk top. Slowly, a thoughtfulexpression dawned. He nodded.     This may work out, he said. I      should     call them back, but sincethe fleet is out of contact, I'm unable to do so, correct? Thus I canhardly be held responsible for any over-enthusiasm in chastising theGroaci.     He closed one eye in a broad wink at Magnan. Very well, gentlemen,I'll overlook the irregularity this time. Magnan, see to it theSmorbrodian public are notified they can remain where they are. Andby the way, did you by any chance discover the technique of theindetectable drive the Qornt use?     No, sir. That is, yes, sir.     Well? Well?     There isn't any. The Qornt were there all the while. Underground.     Underground? Doing what?     Hibernating—for two hundred years at a stretch.  <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall.     I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.     I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?     Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation.     Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.     I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially.     I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together.   <doc-sep></s>","The story opens on a discussion at home between a husband and wife being overheard by their sixteen-year-old son, Wayne. They are distraught over their son’s attitude and attribute it to his age and the buildup of repressed impulses. Wayne views is parents with contempt. He reveals that he has been called to be drafted and leaves them to go to the authorities taking the family automobile.Arriving at the Youth Center, Wayne navigates the bureaucracy of being drafted which involves registering and being issued with a firearm and a switchblade. He bristles against the military authority figures at the youth center, deriding their appearance and position. Wayne is cocky and confident even as he is warned about the dangers of his mission. Wayne is assigned a mission that involves killing a known murderer and his girl. He has six hours of autonomy where he is privileged to operate outside of the normal rule of law.Wayne makes his way to a rougher neighborhood and witnesses another teenager hunt down and brutally murder a vagrant with a baseball bat. Wayne enters the bar which contains his target. He locates and engages them, shooting the man and chasing the woman out of the bar into a crumbling apartment building. When he eventually corners her, she begs him to kill her quickly. Wayne however is overcome with a physical aversion to the violence he was intending to commit.Wayne is later being evaluated back at the Youth Center. It is revealed that society engages teenagers to execute criminals as a preferred outlet for their aggressive impulses. Those that go through with an execution are initiated into the military. Wayne mournfully contemplates that “punking out” in failing to execute his targets relegates him to a shameful, nondescript life much like that of his own father."
"<s>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall.     I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.     I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?     Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation.     Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.     I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially.     I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together.   <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set in an urban environment in an unspecified time in the future. The story begins in a conventional domestic setting but quickly transitions to a Youth Center and then gritty underbelly of the city. The Youth Center is bureaucratic and clinical with Wayne making his way from registration to the Armory to his assignment. Later he returns to this center for psychological treatment. The inner-city area is known as Slumville and is filled with crumbling infrastructure and violent dealings. It is described as dark and mazelike with semi-abandoned buildings that are on the verge of collapse. The Four Aces Club where the main conflict of the story takes place is a seedy bar in Slumville where undesirables congregate. Smoky and filled with jazzy music, the club becomes a scene of tension and violence as Wayne confronts his targets there."
"<s>Moscow, Idaho     June 17     Dear Joe:     I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks!     It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world?     A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population.     Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.     They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright.     The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself.     Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep.     As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Boise, Idaho     July 15     Dear Joe:     A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now.     You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to.     Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle.     This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have.     I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours.     Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it.     Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now.     Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry.     Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming.     By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh?     I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall.     I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.     I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?     Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation.     Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.     I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially.     I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together.   <doc-sep></s>","Distinctive teenage or “teener” vernacular language is used extensively throughout the story. Wayne uses slang to communicate his dismissiveness of those in authority. People who live commonplace lives are “squareheads” and “punks”. Some typical proper nouns are shortened “Olds” for Oldsmobile, “Cad” for Cadillac. The effect is to cement the story in a future where language has evolved from its current state with teens communicating in a way that distinguishes them from other more conventional member of society. Wayne’s interaction with the waiter is emblematic of this effect. By saying, “Bring me a Crusher,” and then “Fade,” it is signaled to the reader that Wayne views himself as a member of a select group with its own cant."
"<s>   THE RECRUIT     BY BRYCE WALTON     It was dirty work, but it would     make him a man. And kids had a     right to grow up—some of them!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs.     The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out.     The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone.     But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time.     Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough.     Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly.     We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books.     But he's unhappy.     Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late.     Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo.     How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland.     But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ.     Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly.     They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up.     Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight.     What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies.     He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent.     Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket.     But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said.     Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call.     He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout.     So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes.     Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape.  <doc-sep>He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading      Public Youth Center No. 947     and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.     Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?     Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey.     Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer?     Wayne Seton. Draft call.     Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307.     Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.     A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight?     Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided.     The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley.     You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad.     The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good.     Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs.     The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary.     He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger.     Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear.     Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls.     Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags.     Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?     Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk?     Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection.     The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth.     Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout.     Yes, sir.     Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk?     No, sir, but I'll find it fast.     Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars.     Yes, sir, Wayne said.     So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack.  <doc-sep>He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table.     He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm.     She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive.     Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy.     What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked.     Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card.     Sure, teener.     Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass.     Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's.     Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse.     The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state.     What else, teener?     One thing. Fade.     Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup.     Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head.     He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good.     Okay, you creep, Wayne said.     He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door.     Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet.     He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer.     Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute.     He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood.  <doc-sep></s>","Wayne is a cocky, arrogant sixteen-year-old defined by his lack of respect for authority. His main goal in life is to be drafted into the military and lead an adventuring life.His unnamed parents care for their son but are nonplussed by his attitude and general demeanor of rebelliousness. They seem to live commonplace lives with domestic trips to the movie theatre or a neighborhood poker game. Wayne views this type of life as detestable. His interaction with his parents is crude and condescending.The military officials that Wayne meets in the Youth Center also elicit Wayne’s contempt. He views their desk jobs as an analog to his parents’ “punkie” existence. To Wayne, the only admirable way of life is one of high adventure. He disrespects most of the desk workers, but the commanding officer, Captain Jack, deflates his self-assurance.Wayne is keenly intent on hunting his targets. He stares them down tensely before violently engaging them. female target, nicknamed the “mouse”, is revealed to be a woman without hope. She’s tired of running and just wants to be put out of her misery. Surprisingly, at the moment of truth, Wayne cannot bring himself to execute the woman in cold blood, in his own words, “punking out”. He admits to the doctor analyzing him after his assignment that he felt sorry for her.     "
"<s>   What is POSAT?     By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course coming events cast their shadows     before, but this shadow was 400 years long!      The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines:     MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!     What is the secret source of those profound     principles that can solve the problems of life?     Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.     Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU     can alter the course of your life!     Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!     The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth     POSAT     an ancient secret society     Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand.     Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of      YourLife and Psychology     that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.     Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.     It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the      Antivivisectionist Gazette     the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible.     Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in      The Bulletin of Physical Research     . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object.     He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.     It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it.     I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters.     Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form.     Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.     He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility.     Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation.     To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity.     What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire.     I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out!     The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin.     Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?     Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers!     The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT?     Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.     It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed.     Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him.     His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future.     It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them.     Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.     After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too.     Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise.       Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these?     She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort.     This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?'     Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab?     Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?     Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants?     He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket?     He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him.     His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.     Dear Doctor Alford:     We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you.     The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?     It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning.       Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!     But it was impossible!     He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem!     Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or—     But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information.     His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents?     Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic.     At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday.  <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe?     I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?     Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything.     You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude.     The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?     Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful.       When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care.     Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse.  <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight.     We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings?     I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group.     What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim.     Why?     Because that's the way it's done.     Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing—     If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen?     Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled.     When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels—     I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt?     After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp—     You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn?     Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes.     What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked.     Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood.     Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance?     Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was.     But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all—     Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action.     But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you!     Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on.     Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course.     Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere....      V     At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white.     Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be?     Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather.     A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit.     The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out.     Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you.     Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this.     He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts.     Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume?     Nope, the Qornt said shortly.     I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on.     Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This—     Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now—     You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up.     Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion—     Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve.     In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested—     Requested? the Qornt honked.     Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have.     You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't—     Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief.     If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps.     Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations.     Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides.     I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered.     Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions.  <doc-sep></s>",The expository dialogue by Doctor Burns at the end of the story provides some insight into how this society views the tendency toward violence in its citizens and retributive criminal justice. The prevailing understanding is that adolescents (presumably adolescent men) are subjected to aggressive and violent impulses. The society seeks to provide these teens a preferred outlet for these impulses in the form of a violent act in service of the state. Typical this seems to be the execution of an undesirable member of society who is viewed as beyond redemption. This permitted brutality is thought to get it out of a teen’s system and prepare him for a life as a contributing member in the state’s military apparatus. The result of this situation is a dramatically violent society where untrained youths are recruited to act as vicious vigilantes who terrorize anyone labelled as undesirable. 
"<s>What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat.     The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to      feel     their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well.     Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens.     Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing.     Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.     There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad?     Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do.     The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.     I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures.     The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted.     I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:     We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the      Makers     , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance.     It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.     The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:     Can you tell us where the Makers are?     Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty.     The Makers—are not here.     Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on:     The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time.     Could that be      pain     in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.     War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled.     He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that      nothing     ,      nothing     could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.     The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.     If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.     Were they immortal?  <doc-sep>Would you like to see a doctor?     Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring.     No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently.     Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually?     By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive.     Steffens tried to understand that.     It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb.     Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled.     You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years.     Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless—     He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.     Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.     His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.     Do you build yourselves? the exec asked.     Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.     No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the      Factory     .     The Factory?     Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?     Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.     Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here.     It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace.  <doc-sep></s>","“Click” Hathaway, a photographer, is on a spaceship with “Irish” Marnagan, the ship’s pilot, as the ship is hit by a meteor and crashesAfter the crash, Hathaway jokes about getting a shot of Marnagan emerging from the wreckage, which Marnagan takes offense to, pointing out he could have been dead; Hathaway says he took it for granted that Marnagan would survive.  Marnagan states that they could walk the entire diameter of the planet they are on in four hours, but Hathaway points out that he has only an hour of oxygen.  Hathaway states that he has photo evidence that the meteor that hit their ship was thrown at them, probably by Gunther, the person Marnagan is trying to capture, but Marnagan redirects their priorities to oxygen, food, and a way back to earth.As they walk in search of help, they notice that there is human-made gravity on the planet.  Immediately after making that discovery, they encounter an enormous herd of dangerous beasts.  When Marnagan discovers his gun is ineffective as a weapon, they flee to a nearby cave for protection, as the cave is too small for the beasts to enter.Marnagan asks Hathaway to take a picture of him with the beasts.  Hathaway snaps several pictures of Marnagan posing at a safe distance.  Hathaway then says that between the “natural” meteors, gravity, and beasts, their crash will look accidental rather than like murder.  He shows Marnagan the pictures he shot, intending to use the beasts as part of his argument, but Marnagan protests that his film is “lousy” as only Marnagan, appears in the shots and not the beasts.  When Hathaway confirms this is so, he is insistent that the film cannot lie.  If the beasts do not appear in the photos, they don’t exist.When they emerge from the cave and the animals are gone, the men are at first elated.  Hathaway quickly realizes, though, that with their oxygen running low and limiting the time they have to find Gunther’s base and fresh oxygen, they must get the beasts to return so that they can follow the beasts to their source--Gunther’s base.The men concentrate on the beasts and the beasts reappear; Hathaway and Marnagan locate a source point and head toward it.  Marnagan believes he is being attacked by a beast, but when Hathaway reminds him the monsters are fake, Marnagan is able to resist the telepathic message.  Marnagan enters the cave where it appears the animals are coming from and finds an air-lock door and a tunnel before he is captured by a guard.  He tells the guard his partner is dead.Hathaway creeps in through the air-lock door to see Marnagan held at gunpoint.  Hathaway fools the guard into believing he is armed, takes his gun, and gets the guard to guide him and Marnagan to oxygen.  They then use photos of Marnagan, inserted in the telepath machines, to take over Gunther’s fortress and capture him.  The story ends with Hathaway taking a triumphant posed picture of Marnagan."
"<s>   The Monster Maker     By RAY BRADBURY     Get Gunther, the official orders read. It     was to laugh! For Click and Irish were     marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only     weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening.     The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury.     Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.     There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.     It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.     Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out!     Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT?     Is this      what     ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.     Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?     Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!     They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.     The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out.     Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like      this     one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera.  <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters!     Only now it was only Marnagan.     No more monsters.     Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away!     Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments!     And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward!     Smile when you say that, Irish.     Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes?     Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets?     I'll take it up with the Board, lad.     Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them.     Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.     Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous—     The Irishman whistled.     But, we've got to      move     , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them.     If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—     Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.     Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach.     Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback!     Come back? How?     They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return.     Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em?     Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a      certain point     . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to      see     them coming at us again.           Do     we, now?     With twenty minutes left, maybe less—     All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?     Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over.     Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...?     Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish.     Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it!     The monsters returned.  <doc-sep>Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff.     Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look.     Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented.     Huh?     It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete.     What!     Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith      nothing     ; Marnagan shooting his gun at      nothing     ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of      nothing     .     Then, closeup—of—NOTHING!     The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe—     Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here—     He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there.     Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave—     If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click.     Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film?     Nuts! Any color      we     see, the camera sees. We've been fooled.     Hey, where      you     going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him.     Get out of the way, said Hathaway.     Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going.     I can't let you do that, Irish.     Why not?     You'd be going on my say-so.     Ain't your say-so good enough for me?     Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—     If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den.     Irish, I—     Shut up and load up.     Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.     Ready, Click?     I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals—     Keep me in focus, lad.     All the way, Irish.     What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!     Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.     Right out into the middle of them....  <doc-sep></s>","Hathaway’s photography is the reason he is initially selected to go along on the mission to capture the outlaw Gunther.  Unlike the character Marnagan, who is repeatedly described as physically very large and strong, Hathaway is not on the mission for his physical prowess, but is there to document Marnagan’s capture of Gunther for training of Junior Patrolmen in the future  Hathaway has also invented self-developing film which seems like a cross between Polaroid pictures and a digital camera, as it has to be put into a micro-viewer at the camera’s base to be seen.  This film allows Hathaway and Marnagan, the active partner on the mission, to view Hathaway’s pictures immediately and notice the absence of beasts from Hathaway’s pictures.  This allows for the revelation that the beasts are telepathic projections into the men’s minds and sets up the final “battle” in the story, in which telepathic projections of Marnagan, created by the same projectors that created the beasts, along with photos from Hathaway’s film, defeat Gunther’s guards and enable Hathaway and Marnagan to capture Gunther.  While nothing could have been accomplished without Marnagan, Hathaway’s photography is essential to the successful completion of the mission."
"<s>   The Monster Maker     By RAY BRADBURY     Get Gunther, the official orders read. It     was to laugh! For Click and Irish were     marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only     weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening.     The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury.     Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.     There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.     It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.     Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out!     Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT?     Is this      what     ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.     Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?     Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!     They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.     The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out.     Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like      this     one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera.  <doc-sep>Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff.     Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look.     Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented.     Huh?     It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete.     What!     Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith      nothing     ; Marnagan shooting his gun at      nothing     ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of      nothing     .     Then, closeup—of—NOTHING!     The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe—     Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here—     He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there.     Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave—     If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click.     Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film?     Nuts! Any color      we     see, the camera sees. We've been fooled.     Hey, where      you     going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him.     Get out of the way, said Hathaway.     Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going.     I can't let you do that, Irish.     Why not?     You'd be going on my say-so.     Ain't your say-so good enough for me?     Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—     If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den.     Irish, I—     Shut up and load up.     Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.     Ready, Click?     I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals—     Keep me in focus, lad.     All the way, Irish.     What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!     Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.     Right out into the middle of them....  <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters!     Only now it was only Marnagan.     No more monsters.     Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away!     Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments!     And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward!     Smile when you say that, Irish.     Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes?     Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets?     I'll take it up with the Board, lad.     Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them.     Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.     Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous—     The Irishman whistled.     But, we've got to      move     , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them.     If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—     Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.     Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach.     Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback!     Come back? How?     They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return.     Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em?     Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a      certain point     . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to      see     them coming at us again.           Do     we, now?     With twenty minutes left, maybe less—     All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?     Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over.     Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...?     Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish.     Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it!     The monsters returned.  <doc-sep></s>","Despite their clear differences, Hathaway and Marnagan are a solid team who work well together and depend on each other.  We first see this in the opening scene of the story where Hathaway is physically clinging to Marnagan in his distress during the crash sequence.  After the crash, Hathaway is more concerned with taking photos of Marnagan emerging from the crash than helping him emerge from the rubble, not because he doesn’t care about his companion, but because he sees his companion as so strong, it doesn’t occur to him to be concerned for his physical safety.  This points to one of their key differences--while Marnagan is immediately concerned for Hathaway’s safety and assumes Hathaway would reciprocate, Hathaway sees Marnagan as much stronger than himself, nearly invulnerable.We see Hathaway and Marnagan’s collaborative relationship continue when they are faced with the beasts.  They are both afraid; Hathaway is the first to spot the secure hiding place of the cave and hails Marnagan to run there.  Marnagan then proposes that he pose “with” the beasts--standing at a safe distance with them in the background--and Hathaway agrees.  They continue to argue about what to do while Hathaway develops the film as part of his argument.  When Hathaway presents the developed film as evidence, Marnagan teases him about his invention being “lousy”, as only he (Marnagan) shows in the photos, but the monsters do not.  This joke sets up Hathaway’s realization that the beasts are telepathic projections rather than physical beings, leading the men to debate which of them will lead the hunt for oxygen.  While Hathaway knows his partner is physically stronger and he is already suffering from oxygen deprivation, he doesn’t want to risk Marnagan’s safety if his deduction proves wrong.  Marnagan, however, shows his trust in Hathaway by insisting that he (Marnagan) lead, confident that if Hathaway says the monsters aren’t there, they are indeed not.When Marnagan briefly succumbs to the telepathic illusion of the beasts, Hathaway is able to talk him down.  Just by listening to Hathaway’s words, Marnagan is able to convince himself again that the beasts are not real.  Marnagan then convinces the guard he encounters that Hathaway died in the ship crash, allowing Hathaway to sneak in, capture the guard, and get both the men oxygen.  They use their teamwork in a last instance to defeat the principal antagonist of the story, Gunther.  Hathaway is captured by more of Gunther’s guards and taken to him, but is already prepared.  He shows Gunther that Gunther’s men are being overwhelmed and defeated by five hundred armed Patrol men, causing Gunther to pull out a weapon and fire wildly until Hathaway knocks him unconscious.  We then are told that the “five hundred Patrol men” are telepathic illusions of Marnagan projected by the same projectors that created the images of the beasts, supplied with photos of Marnagan shot by Hathaway.  Once again their teamwork proves crucial to the success of the mission."
"<s>They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and—     Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one?     Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got      me     doing it. Joking in the face of death.     Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck.     That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout.     Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself.     Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it.     Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue!     Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry.     Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies.     Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals.     Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts.     When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him:     Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces.     Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then!     He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then.     I don't see no Base around.  <doc-sep>   The Monster Maker     By RAY BRADBURY     Get Gunther, the official orders read. It     was to laugh! For Click and Irish were     marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only     weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening.     The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury.     Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.     There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.     It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.     Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out!     Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT?     Is this      what     ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.     Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?     Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!     They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.     The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out.     Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like      this     one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera.  <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters!     Only now it was only Marnagan.     No more monsters.     Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away!     Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments!     And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward!     Smile when you say that, Irish.     Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes?     Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets?     I'll take it up with the Board, lad.     Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them.     Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.     Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous—     The Irishman whistled.     But, we've got to      move     , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them.     If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—     Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.     Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach.     Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback!     Come back? How?     They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return.     Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em?     Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a      certain point     . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to      see     them coming at us again.           Do     we, now?     With twenty minutes left, maybe less—     All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?     Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over.     Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...?     Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish.     Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it!     The monsters returned.  <doc-sep></s>","The crash of Hathaway and Marnagan’s ship is the precipitating event for the events that follow, but it is also more than that.  Hathaway states shortly after the crash that the meteor that hit their ship was deliberately aimed at them with force, based on it being “hot and glowing” at the time of the collision.  Hathaway hypothesizes at that time that Gunther, the man Marnagan is trying to capture on their mission, had engineered the crash.  A short time later, when walking along the surface of the planet, Hathaway notices sudden weight loss.  After he and Marnagan test it and confirm that it really happened, they conclude that their ship was not only hit by a meteor, it was dragged down to the planet by an unnatural amount of gravity, more than the planet is generating.  They then meet horrifying, dangerous monsters, but these are revealed in short order to be telepathic projections.  They are able to dispel the images of the monsters by their own belief that the monsters are not really there, then summon them back by imagining that they are there, but that the monsters cannot harm them.  In this way, the monsters lead them to Gunther, who is captured when Marnagan and Hathaway use the telepathic projectors that generated the “monster” images to generate hundreds of images of Marnagan, making it appear that there is an army ready to take over Gunther’s base and capture or kill all his men.  All of this flows from the initial crash engineered by Gunther with the propelled meteor and the area of super-gravity that pulled the ship down to the planet.  Gunther hoped to make the ship disappear and Marnagan and Hathaway along with it.  Instead, they crashed on the single planet where they could find him and had to take on an immediate quest to search for him in order to survive, as they had limited oxygen and needed to find the only other humans on the planet in order to replenish their supply."
"<s>What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  <doc-sep>I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say      we     —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy.     Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more.     I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power?     For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six?     I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility.     However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us.  <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat.     The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to      feel     their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well.     Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens.     Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing.     Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.     There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad?     Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do.     The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.     I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures.     The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted.     I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:     We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the      Makers     , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance.     It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.     The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:     Can you tell us where the Makers are?     Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty.     The Makers—are not here.     Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on:     The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time.     Could that be      pain     in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.     War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled.     He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that      nothing     ,      nothing     could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.     The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.     If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.     Were they immortal?  <doc-sep></s>","Telepathy plays an interesting role in this story.  Rather than telepathy being used by one character to discern the thoughts of another character, as is often the case, we instead have machines creating telepathic projections.  It is fitting, then, that since machines are creating the telepathic projections, a machine can also defeat them.  The camera does not see through interpreting images or trying to understand them.  It only records light and shadow.  For this reason, it remains unaffected by telepathy--it can only record what is there, not what is projected into the mind.Hathaway and Marnagan become trapped in a small cave by what they believe are dangerous wild beasts.  Marnagan asks Hathaway to take his pictures as Marnagan poses against the backdrop of the beasts.  When Marnagan looks at the photos and complains that the beasts do not appear, Hathaway realizes that the beasts are not physically real, but only telepathic projections in the men's minds.  He and Marnagan are then able to dismiss the beasts and bring them back at will in order to let the projections lead them to their source.Telepathy plays a significant role again when Hathaway and Marnagan formulate a plan to capture Gunther, the person Marnagan is on a mission to capture and the man that caused their crash.  While the two of them could easily overpower Gunther if he were alone, there are at least fifty guards with him at his base.  Hathaway realizes they can photograph Marnagan in poses as though he's taking over the base and use those images in the telepathic projector against the guards and Gunther.  The telepathic projector turns one Marnagan into five hundred, allowing the two men to easily capture the base and Gunther while the guards flee.  The guards are likely aware of the telepathic projectors, but do not suspect that Hathaway and Marnagan have managed to turn the projectors to their own ends.  By using the projectors, Hathaway and Marnagan are able to turn a very dangerous situation into an easy victory. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement.     Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up.     As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying:           Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in.          With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians.     Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry!     She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work.     Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall.     Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus.     At length she finished.     It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom!     You're going to what?     Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque.     How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn.     We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly.     I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program.     Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice.     For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly.     I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from      MurderOn A Space Liner     .  <doc-sep></s>","Grannie Annie,  a prolific science fiction novelist, goes to see Billy at a men’s club. The two sit down to have a drink in an empty portion of the club, but they only have a minute to chat before Grannie Annie remembers she has an appointment at the Satellite Theater. She insists that Billy come with her. Grannie Annie forces Billy to take a seat in the audience, and she takes her place backstage. The show is called “Doctor Universe and His Nine Geniuses,” and it’s a type of gameshow. People and creatures on nine different planets tune into the program, and they ask the geniuses questions. If the show’s experts cannot answer the question, the listener gets a sum of money. Grannie Annie is there to serve as the guest star. The show goes off without a hitch. The only remarkable thing that Billy notices is that the audience appears to be mesmerized by Dr. Universe. Grannie Annie tells Billy that while she was writing a sequel to her latest novel, she met Ezra Karn, and he told her about the Green Flames. The Green Flame is a radioactive rock originally found on Mercury, and the rock’s Gamma Rays have the power to make people and creatures have a strong desire for a leader. Grannie Annie included these fantastical ideas in her recent novel, but her manuscript was stolen. Now, she’s concerned that the rocks and rays will be used by an authoritarian leader. In the middle of their conversation, Grannie Annie and Billy are attacked by someone with a heat ray. The pair leaves Swamp City, followed by the enemy. They travel and find Ezra Karn in his home. Karn takes his friends to the spaceship where the Green Flames are stored. The precious resource is behind impenetrable glass, and it’s clear that whoever controls it made sure it was safe. Karn is an avid Doctor Universe fan, and he off-handedly tells Grannie Annie and Billy that they ought to make the man the king. Grannie Annie realizes that Doctor Universe is in fact the person hoarding the Green Flames, and he’s using his quiz show to control the minds of the masses so that he can take over as dictator. Without warning, Billy and his friends feel an invisible force pushing them and holding down their bodies. They recognize force as the Varsoom, and the only way to stop it is to make them laugh. Grannie Annie builds a machine that allows the group to interrupt Doctor Universe’s broadcast. When Doctor Universe comes on the radio again, Grannie Annie reads one of her science fiction books to the invisible creatures. The plan works, and the Varsoom laugh wildly, which ruins the Doctor’s plans to take over the universe. Grannie Annie says it won’t deter her from writing her novels, and she invites Billy to come along for the research portion of her next project. "
"<s>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights.     People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.     There was a roar of applause from the      Satellite     audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued:     As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand      planetoles     .     One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.     From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais.     The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater:           Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury?          Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly:     Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car.     And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner.     It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things.     The audience in the      Satellite     seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete.     Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction.     When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred.     A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era.     Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth.     Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets.     Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted.     In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes.     Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?     I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down.     The I.P. men aren't strong enough.     She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips.     What do you mean?  <doc-sep>  Doctor Universe     By CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction     under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers,     had stumbled onto a murderous plot more     hair-raising than any she had ever concocted.     And the danger from the villain of the piece     didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the      Spacemen's Club     in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder.     Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady!     A woman here...! The      Spacemen's     was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced.     I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously.     Grannie Annie!     There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance.     I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years.     Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up.     The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth....     Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour.     In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions:     What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the      Spacemen's     ? What happened to the book you werewriting?     Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places.     She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive.     But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount.     One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto.     She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known.     What happened to      Guns for Ganymede     ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it?  <doc-sep></s>","Grannie Annie is a small elderly woman who wears a bonnet and dresses in black. She smokes tobacco and her choice of beverage is whiskey. She is a very well-known science fiction writer, and her work is highly sought after by publishers. Her pen name is Annabella C. Flowers. Her writing includes some repetition. Each novel includes a beautiful woman for the protagonist to fall in love with. Still, Grannie Annie always does her research. If she’s writing about a colony on Venus, she spends weeks there to truly get to know the place before she portrays the setting in her book. Grannie Annie is bold and intelligent. Although she does not first suspect that Doctor Universe is the wannabe dictator, as soon as Karn mentions that he thinks the Doctor should be king, everything clicks, and Annie recognizes him as the villain. She is a quick thinker and a tinkerer as well. She is able to build a contraption that interrupts Doctor Universe’s broadcast in very little time. When the Varsoom laugh at her novel, she gets angry. She clearly takes pride in her work and doesn’t like feeling like a laughingstock. Annie is not a quitter. When Billy asks her if she will continue writing, she already has the idea for her next piece ready to go. "
"<s>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement.     Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up.     As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying:           Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in.          With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians.     Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry!     She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work.     Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall.     Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus.     At length she finished.     It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom!     You're going to what?     Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque.     How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn.     We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly.     I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program.     Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice.     For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly.     I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from      MurderOn A Space Liner     .  <doc-sep>For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming.     My last book,      Death In The Atom     , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn....     Who? I interrupted.     An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty.     The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly.     I shook my head. Some new kind of ...     It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The      Alpha     rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the      Gamma     rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of      Beta     or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons.     When any form of life is exposed to these      Gamma     rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug.     I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word.     Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life.     The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed.     Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor.     To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames!     If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what?     So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble.     Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth.     I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action.     Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think.     I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe?     She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that?     I shrugged.     The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in.     The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in.     And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it      en masse     .     If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger.     Let's get out of here, I said, getting up.       Zinnng-whack!       All right!     On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly.     A heat ray!     Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud.     An instant later we were plunging through the dark night.  <doc-sep></s>","The Green Flames are highly important to the narrative because without them, Doctor Universe would not be able to try and take over the universe. The Green Flames originally come from planet Mercury. When earthlings or other creatures come in contract with the rock’s Gamma rays, their brains instantly desire control from leadership. The element’s power is immense but also subtle. The Green Flames have already been used to institute a dictatorship, as with the cautionary tail of Vennox. Vennox forced each creature to keep two of the rocks in each house, and he used their powers to make them servile. When the government was overthrown, the Green Flames were destroyed. Ezra Karn finds the Green Flames hidden away in a spaceship in the Varsoom district of Venus. Doctor Universe has secured the resource and its power when he broadcasts his weekly quiz show, “Doctor Universe and His Nine Geniuses.” The show is a hit on multiple planets, and the quiz master urges his followers to tune in to each broadcast. The Green Flames lead listeners to believe that he is a supreme being and deserves to be in a position of power. "
"<s>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights.     People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.     There was a roar of applause from the      Satellite     audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued:     As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand      planetoles     .     One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.     From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais.     The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater:           Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury?          Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly:     Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car.     And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner.     It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things.     The audience in the      Satellite     seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete.     Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction.     When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred.     A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era.     Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth.     Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets.     Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted.     In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes.     Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?     I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down.     The I.P. men aren't strong enough.     She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips.     What do you mean?  <doc-sep>Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette.     It wasn't      Guns     , it was      Pistols     ; and it wasn't      Ganymede     , it was      Pluto     .     I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair.     What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster.     Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet.     I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the      Satellite     Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me.     Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the      Satellite     .     They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck,      zilcon     wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is.     In front was a big sign. It read:     ONE NIGHT ONLY     DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS     NINE GENIUSES     THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF     THE SYSTEM     As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row.     Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings.     That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet.     The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator.  <doc-sep></s>","When Grannie Annie shows up at the men’s club to see Billy, the two friends have not seen each other in two years. It is immediately clear that Grannie Annie runs the show in their relationship, in part because Billy is willing to risk his reputation at the men’s club in order to make his elderly friends happy. Within minutes, Billy is whisked away to the theater to watch Annie guest star on Doctor Universe’s show, even though she does not explain the plan to him and he has little interest in being an audience member.Although the rest of the world knows Grannie Annie as Annabella C. Flowers, the name she uses to publish her science fiction novels, Billy would never address her so formally. There is an obvious feeling of trust between the two characters. When Grannie Annie gets her novel stolen and worries that there’s a dictator about to take over the universe, she finds Billy to help her solve the case. Similarly, when Grannie Annie spills her guts about her far-fetched theory about her novel inspiring an evil villain to use the Green Flames to control millions of beings, Billy believes her right off the bat. The pair get along very well, and it’s clear that’s the case when Grannie Annie asks Billy to accompany her on her next trip to research her upcoming novel. Billy simply can’t say no to his friend, whom he deeply admires. "
"<s>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement.     Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up.     As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying:           Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in.          With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians.     Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry!     She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work.     Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall.     Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus.     At length she finished.     It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom!     You're going to what?     Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque.     How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn.     We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly.     I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program.     Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice.     For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly.     I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from      MurderOn A Space Liner     .  <doc-sep>It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance.     Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ...     His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically.     And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening.     ...      the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal.          A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe.     She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word.     I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair.     Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already.      They're laughing at her book!     And look, the old lady's gettin' sore.     Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness.     The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her.     Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it.     I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can.  <doc-sep></s>","Grannie Annie first meets Ezra Karn when she goes to Venus City to research the setting for her novel. Ezra Karn is a prospector who lives in a deep marsh in Varsoom country. Grannie Annie learns that the Green Flames were not all destroyed after the last dictatorship when he tells her that he stumbled upon the resource in an abandoned spaceship. Grannie Annie and Billy find Karn at his hut in the marsh. They ask Karn to take them to the Green Flames, and after some hesitation, he agrees. He knows that the only way to defeat the Varsoom is to make them laugh, but he does not know what exactly they think is funny. He is a huge fan of Doctor Universe, and he never misses a show. Ezra Karn successfully takes Grannie Annie and Billy to the spaceship he previously found. Within moments of laying eyes on it, Karl yells out in pain. He rolls around on the ground, trying to stand but failing. He informs his companions that the force he is dealing with is the Varsoom, and the only way to end the madness is to make them laugh. When it’s time to interrupt Doctor Universe’s broadcast to stop him from taking over the universe, it is Karn’s idea to have Grannie Annie read her book to the Varsoom. He does not realize that they will find it funny, but he does think it’s a good way to get the invisible creatures’ attention. He essentially saves everyone, since Grannie Annie’s book makes the Varsoom laugh and laugh and make it impossible for Doctor Universe to control the minds of the masses. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  IMAGE OF SPLENDOR     By LU KELLA       From Venus to Earth, and all the way between,       it was a hell of a world for men ... and       Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four!     On my way, sir!     At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone.     Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly?     Fusion control two points low, sir.     O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off?     If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir?     So a control reset itself in flight, hey?     I don't know yet, sir.     Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!     The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud.     Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four.     Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way.     She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am!     I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","O’Rielly is an apprentice maintaining Burner Four during his first flight on a spaceship traveling between Venus and Earth. The story begins when his supervisor, Burner Chief Callahan, alerts O’Rielly that one of the controls on his burner has slipped, so he sets about resetting the controls to prevent the ship from crashing when it starts its descent toward Earth. He searches his watch room and around the burner looking for a mouse or anyone who might have moved the control. He thinks about Captain Millicent Hatwoody, the ship’s commander nicknamed “Old Woman”, and worries she will exile him to a distant moon if she discovers the issue. During his search, he discovers a stowaway Venusian woman named Trillium on his bunk bed, and she tells him she had moved the control in order to escape the burner room where she was hiding. O’Rielly is struck by her beauty and allows her to shower in his bathroom. While she is showering, Callahan to interrogate O’Rielly and instructs him to take a shower because Captain Hatwoody is bringing a guest to tour the facilities. He reminds O’Rielly of the history of the Earth women’s supremacy over men, which began as a response to the Earth men’s infatuation with Venusian women. When they established dominance, the Earth women returned the Venusian women to their planet. Consequently, the Venusian men warned of war if any Earth men attempted to contact Venusian women. For their part, Venusian women would be killed if they tried to leave. To soften the threat, Venus agreed to let Earth purchase products at a lower cost. O’Rielly reminds Callahan that no Earth man has seen a Venusian woman in 125 years, and Callahan tells the story—an Earth man disguised himself as a Venusian in order to visit his love, a Venusian woman named Berta. When Trillium returns, she reveals that she is Berta’s granddaughter. She hides again before Captain Hatwoody arrives. The captain and her guest, a Venusian ambassador named Dimdooly, investigate the burner, and their interactions reveal conflicting attitudes towards gender superiority on Earth versus Venus. As they leave, Trillium reveals herself, and Dimdooly recognizes her as the Venusian president’s granddaughter. Captain Hatwoody then calls the presidents of both planets, who begin to blame each other and threaten war. Trillium explains that it was Berta, the president’s wife, who taught her how to stowaway, as she had done so herself 125 years prior. She reveals her purpose for stowing away was to draw attention to her revolutionary vision—to convince Earth to stop purchasing products from Venus, thus stopping their cash flow to fund wars. She explains the wars distract Venusian men, and that is why the women are attracted to Earth men. While the president balks, his wife orders him to step aside as she has been elected new President of Venus, and the Venusian women are taking over. Trillium is rewarded with Dimdooly’s ambassadorship, and Callahan and O’Rielly are sent back to work. "
"<s>  IMAGE OF SPLENDOR     By LU KELLA       From Venus to Earth, and all the way between,       it was a hell of a world for men ... and       Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four!     On my way, sir!     At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone.     Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly?     Fusion control two points low, sir.     O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off?     If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir?     So a control reset itself in flight, hey?     I don't know yet, sir.     Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!     The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud.     Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four.     Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way.     She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am!     I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control.  <doc-sep>The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume.     Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself.     I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and—     This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress?     I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name.     The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she!     I'm afraid we don't have room for any more—     You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love.     Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart.     She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You      must     take me toEarth!     But—     I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame?      I must bring her back!          My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth?     Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone?  <doc-sep>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images.     The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?     Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied.     Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.     Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.     Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again.     Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.     That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever?     On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady.     Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks.     Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.     Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping.     The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window.     Look here, he said.     Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.     All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.     I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:     Turn it on!     The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place on a spaceship that shuttles between Earth and Venus. The ship is commanded by Captain Hatwoody, a stern woman who represents the matriarchy that has taken over Earth. The majority of the story’s narrative happens in Apprentice Burnerman O’Rielly’s watch room. This is a simple room equipped with a bunk bed and bathing facilities, which includes a shower. From this room, he is able to maintain careful stewardship of Burner Four, which helps power the ship. When Callahan notifies O’Rielly that one of his controls has slipped, O’Rielly investigates the burner to find the culprit of the situation. After he discovers Trillium, she uses his bathing facilities to wash herself of the stink from the burner room where she was stowing away. After Callahan enters the watch room and learns of Trillium’s presence, he encourages her to hide again because of Captain Hatwoody’s impending visit. She hides beneath O’Rielly’s bunk. After Captain Hatwoody and her guest, Ambassador Dimdooly, stumble upon Trillium, the captain demands that they all follow her to her office. In her office, she convenes a conference with the presidents of Earth and Venus. After Berta—Trillium’s grandmother, the wife of the current Venusian president, and Callahan’s former love interest—reveals herself as the new ruler of Venus, O’Rielly and Callahan are given a five-minute break and sent back to their former duties managing the burners below."
"<s>Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal.     No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices.     Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame.     Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints!     Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he?     So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run.     Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum.     Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em.     Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys.     With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much?     Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman?     Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully.     Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast!     Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever.     O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone!     At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta!     Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago.  <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   <doc-sep>  IMAGE OF SPLENDOR     By LU KELLA       From Venus to Earth, and all the way between,       it was a hell of a world for men ... and       Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four!     On my way, sir!     At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone.     Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly?     Fusion control two points low, sir.     O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off?     If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir?     So a control reset itself in flight, hey?     I don't know yet, sir.     Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!     The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud.     Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four.     Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way.     She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am!     I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control.  <doc-sep></s>","Callahan is Burner Chief on the ship and has been flying as a professional Burnerman for 125 years. Berta is the first lady of Venus, and the grandmother of Trillium. When O’Rielly is trying to hide Trillium in his shower, Callahan tells the story of when women first took control of Earth: They were not pleased that Earth men were so entranced by Venusian women, and so they took over leadership of the planet and sent all Venusian women back to their own planet. Likewise, Venusian men banned Earth men from interacting with Venusian women under threat of war. This led to an agreement where Earth and Venus could conduct trade together for cheaper prices. Callahan suggests that he was the last man to touch a Venusian woman, and he did so by hiding himself inside a large bag and sneaking through customs disguised as a Venusian man with a long, fake beard. The woman he was sneaking in to see turned out to be Berta, and Callahan says she ultimately rejected him because she could tell his beard was fake, and Venusian women loved to be tickled by real beards. "
"<s>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy.     Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever.     A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk.     Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse.     Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium!     Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?     Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could.       There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet.     Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this!     May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight!     May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war!     Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along!     O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life.     Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up.     Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency.     Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant.     Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting.     Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts.     Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.     The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices.     Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody.     The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense?     Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance.     Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now!     The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS.     So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen.     By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly.     An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there!     Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful.     Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth!     Very well. Grandmamma told me how.  <doc-sep>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things!     Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew!     She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago.     Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible!     Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government.     What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?     No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!     Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more.     But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work!     Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement.     More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely!     Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it!     I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.     What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this!     Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel.     Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature!     Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding.     Nonsense! You're only my wife!     And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.     Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!     Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view.     His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards!     Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now.     Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it!  <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   <doc-sep></s>","Trillium is the granddaughter of the President of Venus and his wife, Berta. One-hundred twenty-five years ago, Berta learned from Callahan’s example how to stowaway and break the rules devised between the two planets. She taught her granddaughter how to do the same, so Trillium took this knowledge to implement her own plan. Trillium represents the women of Venus, who are tired of the lack of attention they receive from Venusian men; the men are far more interested in war and harbor misogynistic attitudes towards women. Likewise, the women rulers of Earth treat men as their inferiors as a result of their lust for Venusian women. When Trillium is discovered, this triggers a meeting between the two presidents of Earth and Venus, and the president of Earth announces that her presence on the ship signifies a breach in their rules. Therefore, the special arrangement between the two planets is ended, and Earth no longer recognizes Dimdooly’s ambassadorship. As the Venusian president resists, he also learns that his wife Berta has been elected the new President of Venus, and that women will now take over just as they did on Earth. She orders her husband to be taken away. After Dimdooly loses his position, he announces his love for Trillium, which confirms her plan to regain the amorous attentions of Venusian men has worked. As a reward for her role in the revolution, Trillium receives Dimdooly’s ambassadorship."
"<s>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy.     Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever.     A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk.     Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse.     Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium!     Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?     Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could.       There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet.     Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this!     May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight!     May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war!     Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along!     O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life.     Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up.     Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency.     Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant.     Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting.     Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts.     Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.     The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices.     Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody.     The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense?     Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance.     Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now!     The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS.     So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen.     By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly.     An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there!     Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful.     Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth!     Very well. Grandmamma told me how.  <doc-sep>  IMAGE OF SPLENDOR     By LU KELLA       From Venus to Earth, and all the way between,       it was a hell of a world for men ... and       Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four!     On my way, sir!     At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone.     Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly?     Fusion control two points low, sir.     O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off?     If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir?     So a control reset itself in flight, hey?     I don't know yet, sir.     Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!     The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud.     Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four.     Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way.     She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am!     I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control.  <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   <doc-sep></s>","Captain Hatwoody is the commander of the ship that ferries between Earth and Venus. She is a stern, efficient Earth woman with a vocal disdain for men. Behind her back, the men of her crew refer to her as “the Old Woman.” Ambassador Dimdooly is a Venusian who works as the right-hand man of the President of Venus. Similar to Hatwoody’s disgust for men, Ambassador Dimdooly harbors a deep-seated misogyny. Both characters’ innate sexism is reflected in the social orders of their individual planets and are the result of over one-hundred years of conflict. Captain Hatwoody plays gracious host to Ambassador Dimdooly when he visits the ship, even referring to him as “Excellency.” However, their tensions are revealed when together they inspect Burner Four after visiting O’Rielly in his watch room. They each make snarky comments to each other about the inferiority of the others’ respective gender. Their attitudes are reflected later during the confrontational meeting between the presidents of Earth and Venus in Captain Hatwoody’s office. These two characters’ interactions are essential in highlighting the gender conflict that explodes at the story’s end when both Earth and Venusian women solidify their rule over their respective planets."
"<s>   QUEST OF THIG     By BASIL WELLS     Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering     HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space     to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on     Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation.     Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.     The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.     Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.     The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.     Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself!     The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger....  <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe      Quest III's     shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist.     But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible.     The people in the      Quest III     would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation.     One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth—     That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there.     The      Quest III     bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart.     Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the      Quest III's     bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit.     He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the      Quest III     ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting.     Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other      Quests     might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep></s>","Three aliens from the planet Ortha, Thig, Kam and their Commander, Torp, have landed on Long Island to see if Earth is viable for the Orthans to take over. Thig captures a passing man, an author named Lewis Terry, and brings him back to the spaceship, where Torp decides that Thig should impersonate Terry to learn more about Earth. Terry’s knowledge is transferred to Thig, a process that kills Terry and arms Thig with with all of his memories. He is given plastic surgery to look like Terry, and he goes to live with Terry’s family. He is greeted by Terry’s three young children and his wife, Ellen; the children’s affection and Ellen’s kiss lead to sensations that confuse but excite Thig. The story then jumps ahead 12 weeks to when they return from their vacation, Thig having experienced many new emotions and sensations and having become very attached to Terry’s family. He knows that he must report to his Orthan colleagues, but has misgivings about doing so. Upon his arrival back to the ship, he tells Torp that Earth is ideal for their purposes, and Torp commends him and says he’ll recommend that Ortha take it over and eradicate the humans. Thig suggests that they instead disarm and exile the humans, and train them in the ways of Ortha. Torp responds angrily that they don’t need to waste their time with anyone outside the Orthan “Horde”. He asks Kam to check his blood for disease. Thig realizes that he loves Ellen and wants to protect her and the earthlings and says as much to Kam, who attempts to subdue him. After a struggle over Kam’s blaster, Thig kills him. Torp sees what he has done and flies into the type of rage Orthans don’t ascribe to, bludgeoning Thig until he thinks he is dead. Thig takes a blaster from a case above him and kills Torp. He reads in the ship log that Torp has written that Earth is not viable, because it infected Thig with a disease that led to him killing Kam and made it necessary for Torp to kill him. Thig puts the ship on autopilot toward Ortha, takes one of the small auxiliary ships, and heads back to Earth. He experiences many emotions, and regrets how callous he was when he first arrived on Earth and captured Lewis Terry. He vows to live as Terry in repayment to his family, and thinks knowing that Ellen doesn’t really love him, Thig, will be his punishment while he strives to make her happy. As he heads toward Long Island, the idea for a story develops in his mind. This one is about a cowboy that visits other worlds, worlds like the ones Thig has seen. He thinks maybe he could write this, and then reminds himself to remember that he is Lewis Terry now. "
"<s>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  <doc-sep>There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed.     He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig.     Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets.     You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so.     Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman.     For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory.     Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything!     So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads.     For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.     There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly.     An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home.     Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!     He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart.     Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory.     Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat.     Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon.  <doc-sep>The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.     Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander.     He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.     Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....  <doc-sep></s>","Thig is the protagonist of the story, a native of the planet Ortha. He is described as shorter than an average human man (though tall for an Orthan man), and thick-bodied with well-developed muscles, average-to-large facial features, and reddish brown eyes. At the beginning of the story, he and two other Orthans, Kam and Torp, are on a mission to find planets considered viable for the Orthans to take over. Thig kidnaps a human man, Lewis Terry, and the Orthans transfer his memories to Thig and surgically alter him to look like Terry. Thig assumes his identity and joins his family posing as Terry. He begins to feel new sensations and emotions around Terry’s wife, Ellen, and their kids, and travels with them on a three-month vacation during which he learns what it feels like to be human and to care for a family. When they return and he must make his report to the other Orthans, he truthfully reports that Earth would be ideal to take over but has second thoughts when Torp says he’ll recommend that they conquer Earth and decimate the population. When his pleas to consider just disarming and exiling the humans are met with scorn, Thig becomes angry and ultimately realizes that he loves Ellen and wants to go back to save Earth. He kills both of his Orthan colleagues and sends the ship back toward Ortha as he takes an auxiliary ship back to Long Island. Along the way, he experiences many emotions including regret for his former callousness and taking Lewis Terry away from his family. Instead of the robotic being who initially exhibited coldness and indifference at the beginning of the story, he now experiences remorse and selflessness as he decides to give Ellen and the kids the life they deserve even though he’ll always know who he is and what he has done. "
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>   QUEST OF THIG     By BASIL WELLS     Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering     HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space     to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on     Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation.     Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.     The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.     Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.     The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.     Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself!     The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger....  <doc-sep>Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.     The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered.     The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight.     A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem....     He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!   <doc-sep></s>","The story is set in multiple locations, including Long Island, New York, an Orthan spaceship and smaller auxiliary ship, parts of the American West, and outer space. The ship from Ortha lands on Long Island in New York, and this is where Thig captures Lewis Terry and takes him to the Orthans’ spaceship, before settling in with his family, posing as Terry. This area of Long Island is near the beach and the sound, and is described as lush and green. The Terry family lives in a small grey house that is somewhat run down. While we don’t travel out west on the Terry family vacation, we do experience bits of it in Thig’s memory, including the Grand Canyon in Arizona and unspecified desert terrain. The story then takes us back to the ship, and a small laboratory aboard the ship, and then inside a smaller ship as it heads back to Long Island. "
"<s>   QUEST OF THIG     By BASIL WELLS     Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering     HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space     to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on     Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation.     Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.     The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.     Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.     The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.     Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself!     The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger....  <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  <doc-sep>There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed.     He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig.     Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets.     You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so.     Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman.     For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory.     Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything!     So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads.     For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.     There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly.     An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home.     Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!     He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart.     Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory.     Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat.     Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon.  <doc-sep></s>","The society on Ortha has discarded what they consider to be primal or barbaric tendencies and customs. Their children are raised in laboratories never knowing their parents and are not shown love or affection. They are taught to value loyalty to the Orthan “Hordes” over everything, and to believe that they are entitled to anything in the universe that they desire, with no regard to those outside the Hordes. They don’t have mates or have sex, though they do walk around naked. Free thought and primal urges are discouraged, and Orthan society has attempted to filter out any behavior they consider to be barbaric in favor of a robotic, obedient populace. By contrast, Thig discovers that humans feel the full gamut of emotions, think for themselves, and feel empathy rather than the dispassionate callousness Ortha demands. "
"<s>Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.     The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water.     Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain.     Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes?     Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life.     The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives.     There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed.     Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach.     The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him.     Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour.     He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.     Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea.     So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde!  <doc-sep>   QUEST OF THIG     By BASIL WELLS     Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering     HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space     to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on     Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation.     Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.     The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.     Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.     The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.     Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself!     The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger....  <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  <doc-sep></s>","Ellen is the wife of Lewis Terry, and she is described as slender with red hair. When Thig assumes Terry’s identity, some of the first sensations he experiences result from Ellen kissing him. On their travels throughout the American West, Thig bonds with her and with her children. He learns to understand new experiences and emotions throughout his time with Ellen, and he observes that she seems to know how he’s feeling without him telling her. When Thig ultimately realizes that he wants to go back to Earth, it is because he loves Ellen and wants to save her and humanity. It is Ellen he thinks about as he returns to Earth and feels the sting of regret that he killed her husband, and decides to spend the rest of her life making it up to her. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks.     The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous.     Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—     Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point—     Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,     May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?     Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below.     Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something?     Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.     I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye.  <doc-sep></s>","Joe and Harvey land on Planetoid 42 and enter a bar. They see Genius, an incredible looking creature with six limbs, and immediately become interested in him. They tell the bartender, Johnson, that they’re very thirsty, so he sells them each eight glasses of water, and they guzzle them down. Harvey and Joe are horrified to find out that the water is highly expensive. Johnson explains that the water must be purified. When the pair leaves, they find a pipe in a small pond and realize that Johnson has undoubtedly swindled them. The sweet water is readily available and it is transported directly to the saloon via this pipe. Harvey and Joe head back to the bar. Joe comes down with a sudden illness, and it’s clear that this is a con the men use all the time. Johnson recognizes that Joe has asteroid fever and becomes frightened. Harvey explains that the only medication that will provide an instant cure is the one they happen to be selling: La-anago Yergis.Joe is instantly cured once Harvey pours the special liquid into his mouth. Johnson is flabbergasted and wants to purchase an entire case. While in the privacy of their ship, Joe and Harvey discuss their joint desire to purchase Genius. They believe they could make a fortune off of him if they featured him in an exhibit. Johnson accepts the fake solution and informs Harvey and Joe that his restaurant is open. After looking at the menu, the men are astounded at the low prices. However, they soon find out that they have been taken advantage of when they receive a bill for a very large sum of money. They learn that the fine print they missed on the menu explains the charge. When Joe tells Johnson they won’t pay the bill, Johnson reminds them that he is in fact the Sheriff as well as the saloon owner and the mayor. Harvey requests to purchase Genius, and Johnson agrees. In a last ditch effort to recoup some more money, Harvey brings up an invention they have on their ship that Johnson must see. Joe brings back a radio that was supposedly created by a famous doctor. It is special because it broadcasts from the fourth dimension. They convince Johnson that he is the perfect person to make sense of the garbled transmissions. Johnson pays extra for the special batteries it takes.Just as Harvey and Joe make it back to the ship with Genius, the creature informs them that he cannot leave the planet because another planet’s pressure would squish him to death. And yes, he admits, Johnson was fully aware of this fact when he sold him. When Harvey does the math involved in the various exchanges of goods, he realizes that after all that time and the several cons they engaged in, he and Joe made a measly four cents. The men take off on their ship and head to Mars. "
"<s>   GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate.     Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe.     What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails.     Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily.     It leads      to     the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads      from     .     Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.     Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.     I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice.     But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it.     Sweet! he snarled.     They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience.     The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence.     Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched.     Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City.     You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed.     Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man.     He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone.     Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere.     The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....     Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well?     Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's.     Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever!     Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe.     What do you mean,      once     ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here!     In good time. He can't be moved immediately.     Then he'll be here for months!     Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps.     You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups—     Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever.     What's that? asked the mayor without conviction.     Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle.  <doc-sep>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result.     Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out.     Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously.     Much better, said Joe in a weak voice.     Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested.     Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit.     Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.     Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated.           La-anago Yergis     never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable.     The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some.     We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself.     'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson.     That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves.     How much? asked the mayor unhappily.     For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos.     Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered.     Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly.     Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson.     I dislike haggling, said Harvey.     The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include,      gratis     , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship.     Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me.     Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won.     There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again.     Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves.     With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried:     What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil?     That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was      La-anagoYergis     extract, plus.     Plus what—arsenic?     Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course.     But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously.     Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same      medicine     that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause.     Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more.     Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less.     Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?     Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.     I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo!  <doc-sep></s>","Harvey and Joe are business partners and conmen. Although they are both important players in their various ruses, Harvey is definitely the brains behind the operation. Joe is willing to listen to Harvey’s instructions and play along in order to get money out of their victims. However, he is also a bit more hot-headed than his partner, and it’s up to Harvey to calm Joe down when he gets flustered because they are taken advantage of. When Joe finds out about the sweet water that Johnson lied about, he is instantly irate. Later, when Johnson tricks them into ordering loads of food at his restaurant, Joe is furious and threatens not to pay the bill. In both instances, Harvey recognizes that the pair was fooled fair and square and all they can do is accept the loss. It is obvious that the two have been working together for a long time because they are able to communicate using very few words and gestures. They both know their playbook of tricks, and it is easy for each of the men to tip the other off to their thoughts. After meeting Genius, Harvey and Joe immediately agree that they should try and acquire the creature. Both men are money-minded and they see dollar signs when they lay their eyes on an alien as peculiar as him. When the duo wants to sell their medicine, Joe pretends to come down with symptoms of asteroid fever, and Harvey doesn’t miss a beat. Within moments he asks Joe if he’s feeling okay and goes to fetch the fake panacea that they peddle. "
"<s>The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn!     A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death.     Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him.     Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze!     The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor.     Get his gun, Irish.     Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward.     Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting.     What!     Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base?     The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder.     Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double!     Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely.     They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off.     The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius.     So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves?     What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut.     Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill—  <doc-sep>   GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt.     I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker?     A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you.     He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled.     How much did we have when we landed, Joseph?     Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly.     I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents!     Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper.     Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents.     Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled.     But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy.     Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him?     Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it?     How much did it cost us?     Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents!     Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax!     He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold?           Goldbricks!      Harvey said succinctly.     Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars.   <doc-sep></s>","Genius is an important character because he is used to illustrate just how brilliant Johnson is. The man is clearly intelligent because he has positioned himself as the sheriff, the barman, and the mayor of Planetoid 42. He also makes money by fooling gullible outsiders into paying high prices for water and food. However, his idea to sell Genius over and over again is perhaps the most shrewd. His asking price for the remarkable creature is in the 600s, much more than he’s able to charge for water or dishes at his restaurant. Johnson pretends that he’s attached to Genius and would hate to see him go, yet he cannot turn down the incredible sum of money. Each time Genius is sold to naive buyers, he ends up making his way right back to Johnson’s bar, and Johnson profits all of the money. Genius cannot leave the planet because the pressure in other habitats is too much for his unique body to handle. If one of the buyers insisted on bringing him aboard their ship, he would turn up dead and useless to them anyway. Therefore, they always send the poor creature back to Johnson and lose out on their plans to make loads of money off of him. "
"<s>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result.     Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out.     Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously.     Much better, said Joe in a weak voice.     Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested.     Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit.     Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.     Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated.           La-anago Yergis     never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable.     The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some.     We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself.     'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson.     That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves.     How much? asked the mayor unhappily.     For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos.     Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered.     Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly.     Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson.     I dislike haggling, said Harvey.     The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include,      gratis     , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship.     Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me.     Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won.     There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again.     Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves.     With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried:     What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil?     That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was      La-anagoYergis     extract, plus.     Plus what—arsenic?     Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course.     But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously.     Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same      medicine     that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause.     Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more.     Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less.     Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?     Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.     I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo!  <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate.     Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe.     What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails.     Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily.     It leads      to     the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads      from     .     Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.     Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.     I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice.     But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it.     Sweet! he snarled.     They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience.     The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence.     Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched.     Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City.     You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed.     Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man.     He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone.     Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere.     The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....     Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well?     Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's.     Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever!     Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe.     What do you mean,      once     ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here!     In good time. He can't be moved immediately.     Then he'll be here for months!     Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps.     You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups—     Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever.     What's that? asked the mayor without conviction.     Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle.  <doc-sep>   GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  <doc-sep></s>","Joe and Harvey are professional conmen, so they are quite good at swindling innocent victims. They make their money by peddling a fake panacea called La-anago Yergis. The men regularly partake in an act where Joe falls ill and Harvey has to come to his rescue with the extract. Although Johnson falls for this trick and purchases an entire case of the medicine, he also does a great job of getting Harvey and Joe back. At the end of the story, the opposing sides come out basically even in terms of financial gains. Johnson first demonstrates that he can take advantage of Harvey and Joe when he gives them each eight glasses of water before letting them know that he charges a lot for each glass. The men say they’re thirsty, so he is happy to give them as much as they’d like to drink. Although Johnson says that the water costs so much because it must be specially purified, the truth is that he has access to an entire body of water and there really isn’t any reason to charge so much.Later, Johnson convinces Harvey and Joe that they’re hungry enough to sit down at his restaurant even though neither one had even mentioned food. He allows them to order their food and believe that they’re getting an incredible deal until he tells them about the fine print on the menu. Harvey and Joe are forced to fork over hundreds of dollars for their meal, and when they threaten to walk out, Johnson reminds them that he is the sheriff on Planetoid 42, and he has the power to arrest them. "
"<s>   GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit.     Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air!     There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry!     I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first!     He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—     He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it.     And this time the headset spoke back!     Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears.     He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway.     Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily.     Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face.     Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died.     Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her.     The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter!  <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks.     The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous.     Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—     Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point—     Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,     May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?     Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below.     Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something?     Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.     I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye.  <doc-sep></s>","Planetoid 42 is a place without much to offer besides a port. It is heavily polluted, covered in plants that are similar to vines, and boasts only one saloon. It is home to only two humans, Johnson and his son Jeb, and Genius, a fantastic creature with six limbs that is unlike anything Joe and Harvey have ever seen before. The planet has gravity, which made it possible for Jed to grow to eight feet tall. Genius is also able to thrive on Planetoid 42 while he would perish on other planets with more gravity. Although Johnson says that the water must be purified so it doesn’t taste bitter, the truth is that there’s a large pool with sweet water on the planet. Johnson insists that he has to charge a lot of money for water in part because he has very few customers. The planet is mostly deserted and people only show up to his bar if they’re in trouble.Johnson makes the rules because he is in charge of everything. He is the sheriff, fire chief, mayor, justice of the peace, and restaurateur. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  <doc-sep></s>","The story describes the crew of a probe spaceship as it investigates an extraterrestrial world. The crew is made up of Stark, Gilbert, Steiner, Langweilig, Craig, and Briton—the captain, executive officer, crewmember, engineer, part-owner of the probe, and a Catholic priest respectively.From orbit, the crew scans the moon using various technological instruments. They discover abundant highly developed life forms including a small location of sentient life, possibly of extraordinary magnitude. They descend to the moon’s surface near the location of the sentient life. They discover a multitude of plants and animals that are found on Earth, also finding two individuals that appear to be human, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah.Their investigation of the surroundings bears a startling resemblance to the biblical story of Genesis. The crew is bewildered to consider that this may indeed be a new Garden of Eden which never fell into sin and was preserved as a perfect paradise.After remaining for a few days, the crew returns to their probe. They remark how immoral it would be to meddle such an unspoiled paradise, but nevertheless begin the process of advertising the world to potential colonizers who would indeed exploit the moon for profit.Surprisingly, it is revealed that back on the planet that the individuals that were merely posing as Ha-Adamah and Hawwah working with their boss, Snake-oil Sam, to deceive potential colonists, ambushing them upon arrival and confiscating their valuable supplies and equipment.Back on the probe Father Briton chides the rest of the crew that they had been taken in by an obvious ruse and to inform any potential colonists to prepare for armed resistance. The incredulous crew demands to know the reasoning behind his conclusion.  He casually says that besides what he contended were glaring inaccuracies, the fact that Ha-Adamah refused to play him in checkers despite claiming to have a preternaturally perfect intellect was all the proof he needed."
"<s>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  <doc-sep>Bombay, India     June 8     Mr. Joe Binkle     Plaza Ritz Arms     New York City     Dear Joe:     Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born.     Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation.     As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera.     Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.     I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again.     The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information.     I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness.     I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely.     All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task!     Farewell till later.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep></s>","There are two main groups of characters: the crew of the Little Probe and the inhabitants of the “Garden” world.The crew of the Little Probe consist of Stark, the captain; Gilbert, the executive officer; Steiner, a generall crewmember “flunky”; Langweilig, the engineer; Craig, a businessman and part-owner of the ship; and Fr. Briton, priest, linguist, and checkers afficionado. Stark is the leader of the group, commanding the others to their various tasks. Craig is shown to be a shrewd entrepreneur who is most intent on reaping potential profit from the situation they find themselves in.On the moon lives Ha-Adamah and Hawwah who present themselves as archetypes of the biblical Adam and Eve. In reality, they are settlers, attempting to gather supplies to farm this world by stealing supplies from other settlers that they entice to world and then ambush. They are commanded by Snake-Oil Sam, a cynical, former showbusiness professional who runs the con.The two groups interact when the crew descends to the surface of the moon. Ha-Adamah describes his environment in casual but bewildering terms to his visitors. Briton, as a Catholic priest, is designated by the crew to be Ha-Adamah’s main interlocutor. Hawwah, notedly does not speak at all—a flourish to attempt to further depict the attractiveness of the world to their all-male visitors. The crew beside Briton are enamored by the environment of the moon and are totally taken in by the performance of their hosts. The story concludes with Briton chiding his crewmates for their gullibility. Although Briton perhaps had the most reason to believe the moon was divinely ordained, he saw through the charade without much difficulty."
"<s>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.     Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry.     We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently.     It won't any more, Rikud said.     What won't?     The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.     Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud.     It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport.     That's ridiculous, Chuls said.     Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think.     There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it.     Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat?     Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better.     We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there.     We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully.     Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.     No, Rikud assured him. It won't.     Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken.     We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made.     A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile.     Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.     The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him!     Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.     It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively.     He became sickly giddy thinking about it.     But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.     He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.     Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.     He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him.     Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people      should     . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid.     He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor!     Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes.     Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door.     Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer.     Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you—     Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.     His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others....     So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck.     He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place on an unnamed extraterrestrial moon and a small probe that is visiting the moon to investigate its suitability for development. The moon is an earthlike environment that appears to be a perfect paradise in every respect. The land is fertile, the wild animals are domesticated, and there is an abundance of fruit to eat and minerals to potentially harvest. The description of the world that the crew receives depicts it as a true Eden—a perfect paradise. Also on the moon is a massive cave, from where the inhabitants of the moon store their stolen goods and prepare to ambush unsuspecting potential settlers. "
"<s>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  <doc-sep></s>","Christianity is a central component of the story. The heart of the narrative revolves around the description of the world as a replica of the biblical Garden of Eden. The author goes into extensive detail regarding the aspects of the garden and its inhabitants and how they conform to aspects of the Genesis narrative and how it was understood by religious analysis. It is heavily suggested that here, the Serpent did not succeed in convincing man to sin and fall from grace as was the case in the biblical narrative. As a result, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah (the Hebrew names for Adam and Eve) remain clothed in light and still enjoy the preternatural gifts of creation including a highly advanced intellect, immortality and even an illuminated appearance.It is revealed that this depiction is a deception on the part of the moon’s inhabitants. Interestingly, the 4 non-believers on the crew are the most ready to believe that the state of affairs on the planet is indeed supernatural. It is only the clever priest who possesses faith, but employs the skepticism necessary to see through the fraud."
"<s>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall.     I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.     I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?     Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation.     Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.     I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially.     I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together.   <doc-sep>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made.     What do you make of them? asked Stark.     Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity.     And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia.     Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist.     That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself.     Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man.     The two of us. Man and woman.     But are there any others?     How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman?     But is there more than one man or woman?     How could there be more than one of anything?     The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people?     You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky.     Thanks a lot, said Steiner.     But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark.     No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people?     And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling.     Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain.     Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits.     We will, said Captain Stark.     They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you.     If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining.     Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site.     And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped.     If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one.     I won't be the first to eat one. You eat.     Ask him first. You ask him.     Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples?     Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden.  <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  <doc-sep></s>","Human sinfulness and its collective fall from grace are referenced in several ways in the story. Ha-Adamah contrasts his world’s perfection with the fallenness that is apparent in the visitors. He claims to be free from the stain of original sin. He presents himself as perfectly happy and not subject to corruption, aging, or death. This is contrasted with Earth's humanity which was fated to “lose that happiness, and then to seek it vainly through all the ages.”The entire crew of the Little Probe agree on the unacceptability of spoiling a pristine world. Even so, they irresistibly and almost gleefully prepare to exploit the world’s riches.Snake-Oil Sam expounds upon this inclination. He claims that on top of the very real greed of the visitors they’ve deceived over the years, they are capitalizing on the human desire to despoil the unspoiled. This is a clear summation of concupiscence—the inclination for fallen humanity to tend toward sin. It is clear that Sam and his associates are just as fallen as the other individuals in the story, preying on others to further their own goals."
"<s>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  <doc-sep>   Brightside     Crossing   by Alan E. Nourse    JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.”     Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it.     Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing.     The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.”     Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.”     “At perihelion?”     “Of course. When else?”     The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.”     “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.     “The name is Claney,” said the stranger.     There was a silence. Then: “Claney?      Peter     Claney?”     “That’s right.”     Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man—      where have you been hiding?     We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”     “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.”     “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling.     Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.”     “But you’ve      got     to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need      details     . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—”     “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.     “Of course we want to know. We      have     to know.”     “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”     “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”     Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the      planet     that whipped us, that and the      Sun     . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.”     “Never,” said Baron.     “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.  <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  <doc-sep></s>","James Baron is planning a trek to Brightside Crossing on Mercury, a feat so far unaccomplished. Few had tried, and those that did died. All except for one. He is asked to wait at the Red Baron as someone wanted to see him at 8. He waits patiently and is rewarded with the company of Peter Claney, the man who made it back home. Claney instantly tells him to give up on the journey and stay on Earth. Baron asks for details about their trek and what went wrong, but Claney refuses to give him the details. Claney is an older man now with an epithelioma on his face. Although he came to warn him, he quickly learns that Baron may only listen if he hears the truth. So Claney recounts the story. Major Tom Mikuta recruited Claney, Jack Stone, and Ted McIvers to join him. They were to adventure to the Brightside Crossing at perihelion, a more dangerous journey. Temperatures reached up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit at perihelion, but Mikuta was an all-or-nothing man. Stone arrived on Mercury first, soon followed by Mikuta and Claney. McIvers was the last to arrive and they left soon after with three Bugs and one tractor dragging the sledges. Stone was briefed by Sanderson, the head of the observatory, before they left, and the men pored over all images and maps of the Crossing before beginning. Despite their high-tech spacesuits and general gadgets, the giant sun still got to them. They were constantly thirsty and hot, and their skin itched and burned. They drove for eight hours, then slept for five. They needed to travel 70 miles a day. It would take 30 days to reach the Center, and then another 30 to reach the pick-up spot. The journey quickly took a toll on Stone, who was the most apprehensive of the bunch. He retreats into himself, while McIvers chatters nonstop to fill the silence. Tension grew among the crew, especially as McIvers put himself at risk by adventuring away from them. Claney lead the gang in his Bug, while McIvers and Mikuta flanked him. Stone was in the very back. If Claney saw something suspicious or unsafe, they would investigate on foot before continuing in their equipment. As they travel, they got closer to the Sun, which appeared to be twice as big as it did on Earth. Several drives into their journey, McIvers discovered something truly terrible on one of his forrays. He screamed into the intercom, alerting the others who quickly rushed after him. He stood there, pointing below. There lay a broken, older Bug and two corpses. Wyatt and Carpenter, the original discoverers. They continued on with disheartened spirits until Claney reached a cleft. There was no way to cross it, except for a very small and dangerous ledge. The cleft slowly began to crumble under their Bugs and they’re left in a very precarious position. "
"<s>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets.     The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.     That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat.     The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”     McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”     The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?”     Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”     McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?”     “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?”     “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?”     “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.”     Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.”     McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the      advance     work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?”     “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply.     “Charts! I’m talking about      detail     work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—”     “No dice,” the Major broke in.     “But why not? We could save ourselves days!”     “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.”     McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”     “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?”     McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too.     “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.”     It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab.     I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges.     Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles.     I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite.     We didn’t      feel     the heat so much those first days out. We      saw     it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.     We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins.     The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so.     We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer.     After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases.     It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.     Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself.     Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain.     I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash.     We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires.     I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first.     Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too.     McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time.     Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better.     And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek.     But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones.     I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds....     We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets.     This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on      their     Brightside Crossing.  <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  <doc-sep></s>","From the get-go, Claney is clear in his obvious mistrust of McIvers and his preceding reputation. Late to Mercury, he arrives ready to explore. With long, gray hair and paradoxically drowsy yet alert eyes, McIvers’ constant movement and chatter get on his colleague’s nerves. McIvers is a famous climber known for pushing the boundaries and being a daredevil. After his arrival on Mercury, he and the crew soon set out for their treacherous journey to the Brightside Crossing. He switches spots with Stone, so he would have control of a Bug. He also asks to explore four or five miles ahead of the rest of the crew to see if it’s dangerous footing ahead. Mikuta quickly shuts him down. McIvers talks nonstop through the intercoms or when they’re supposed to be resting. As well, he disobeys Mikuta’s orders and occasionally drifts off from the rest of the group, discovering things as he goes. He never drifts far enough to receive any real punishment, though he does get farther away every time. During one of his side-explorations, he discovers a wrecked Bug and two corpses belonging to Wyatt and Carpenter, the previous explorers of the Brightside Crossing. With this shocking find, he returns to the crew in silence. "
"<s>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  <doc-sep>   Brightside     Crossing   by Alan E. Nourse    JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.”     Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it.     Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing.     The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.”     Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.”     “At perihelion?”     “Of course. When else?”     The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.”     “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.     “The name is Claney,” said the stranger.     There was a silence. Then: “Claney?      Peter     Claney?”     “That’s right.”     Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man—      where have you been hiding?     We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”     “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.”     “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling.     Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.”     “But you’ve      got     to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need      details     . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—”     “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.     “Of course we want to know. We      have     to know.”     “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”     “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”     Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the      planet     that whipped us, that and the      Sun     . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.”     “Never,” said Baron.     “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.  <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  <doc-sep></s>","Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse mostly takes place on the surface of Mercury.  The main characters begin in an observatory equipped to support human life as well as do research on the planet itself. However, they quickly move on in their journey to cross the Brightside at perihelion. Full of craters, gorges, and cracked land, the planet’s surface is incredibly dangerous to travel on. Sulfurous, hot winds blow across the planet. Beyond the towering, rocky spears and jagged gorges lay yellow valleys and flatlands. The gas beneath the surface of the planet can cause volcanic-like eruptions. This gas can also imply rise up from the core and poison the atmosphere around it. Gray dust caused by years of erosion rested atop every surface. Mercury is an incredibly hot planet, being the nearest to the sun, and the surface reflects that. "
"<s>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  <doc-sep>   Brightside     Crossing   by Alan E. Nourse    JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.”     Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it.     Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing.     The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.”     Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.”     “At perihelion?”     “Of course. When else?”     The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.”     “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.     “The name is Claney,” said the stranger.     There was a silence. Then: “Claney?      Peter     Claney?”     “That’s right.”     Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man—      where have you been hiding?     We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”     “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.”     “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling.     Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.”     “But you’ve      got     to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need      details     . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—”     “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.     “Of course we want to know. We      have     to know.”     “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”     “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”     Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the      planet     that whipped us, that and the      Sun     . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.”     “Never,” said Baron.     “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.  <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  <doc-sep></s>","The Brightside Crossing is an undiscovered portion of Mercury. It is the closest planet to the sun, and the Brightside is the surface that is face-to-face with the surface of the sun most of the time, thanks to Mercury’s quick orbit. It is an incredibly dangerous area of Mercury, with temperatures reaching up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit, possibly more. Because of the difficult atmosphere, the presence of dangerous gases, treacherous landscape, and the heat, the Brightside Crossing remained undiscovered and uninhabitable for hundreds of years. Major Tom Mikuta decided to follow in the footsteps of Wyatt and Carpenter and take on the challenge. The promise of power and discovery draws the main characters forward, as well as the idea of being the first. Mikuta claims that if he were to make the crossing, Mercury would be his. The challenge of the Brightside Crossing is the origin of their desire."
"<s>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets.     The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.     That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat.     The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”     McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”     The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?”     Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”     McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?”     “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?”     “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?”     “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.”     Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.”     McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the      advance     work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?”     “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply.     “Charts! I’m talking about      detail     work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—”     “No dice,” the Major broke in.     “But why not? We could save ourselves days!”     “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.”     McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”     “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?”     McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too.     “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.”     It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab.     I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges.     Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles.     I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite.     We didn’t      feel     the heat so much those first days out. We      saw     it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.     We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins.     The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so.     We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer.     After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases.     It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.     Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself.     Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain.     I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash.     We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires.     I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first.     Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too.     McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time.     Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better.     And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek.     But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones.     I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds....     We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets.     This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on      their     Brightside Crossing.  <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  <doc-sep></s>","Jack Stone arrives on the surface of Mercury around a week ahead of his partners. It’s revealed rather early on that Stone is not much of an explorer himself. His wits and genius make him an invaluable resource, but his heart wasn’t necessarily in the right place. Claney claims that Stone only came to follow Major Mikuta around, a man he deeply respected and admired. At barely 25 years old, Stone was the youngest member of the team. His experience with Mikuta at the Vulcan qualified him for the trek, or so he thought, and so he tagged along. His apprehension and anxiety about the trip are evident from the beginning. After Sanderson, the leader of an observatory on Mercury, explained how treacherous their journey was going to be, Stone almost cried. Once they begin their trek, Stone retreats further into himself. Jack’s job was to drag the sledges behind the rest of the crew. Possibly fed up by McIvers’ constant joking or tortured by the fear that he would be lost on this planet forever, Stone became a shell of himself. In the end, after McIvers discovered the corpses of the two discoverers that came before them, Wyatt and Carpenter, we can only assume that Stone’s fear and reservedness increased tremendously. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>   DOUBLE TROUBLE     by CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction     writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot     fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,     I was running in circles—especially since     Grannie became twins every now and then.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      We had left the offices of      Interstellar Voice     three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees.     Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters.     As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.     This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot.     Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks.     Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.     He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.  <doc-sep></s>","The mining for a precious ore called Acoustix has spurred colonization of Jupiter’s eighth moon by two mining companies called Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. There is a barren desert landscape between the mining areas of the two companies that is called the Baldric. The only plant appears to be trees that have melon-shaped tops, and the only animal is a silver parrot-like bird that is capable of imitating human speech, and also of imitating human forms in a holographic-like manner.Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, who is travelling to the Baldric with her martian employee, Xartal, who takes detailed drawings that are the background research for her next novel. She is travelling in a party of four: herself, Xartal, Ezra Karn (old prospector), and the narrator (called Billy-boy by Grannie).Strange happenings are known to occur in the Baldric. They encounter a silver bird that repeats English words and creates what seems like a mirage of themselves projected in the distance which disappears as it comes closer. They do not know at the time, but the parrot has created this mirage based on viewing one of the lifelike drawings that Xartal is making of the group.They happen to run into Jimmy Baker, the manager of the Larynx Incorporated mining company, who is interested in Grannie’s help sorting out the root cause of his workers coming down with “red spot fever” which causes them to leave their work and walk into the Baldric, never to return. They travel to Larynx Incorporated’s offices with Jimmy, where he learns all of the workers from Shaft Four have left their posts due to the fever. Coincidentally, that is also their most productive ore location. Jimmy, Grannie, and Xartal take off to Shaft Four via the Baldric to investigate what is going on. During their travel, they break for camp near a flock of the birds and discover their ability to imitate human forms.Antlers Karn, the manager of Interstellar Voice, turns out to be a bad guy who ambushes Grannie’s camp. He is trying to sabotage Jimmy’s company by causing the red spot fever to stop them from capitalizing on a huge deposit of Acoustix they discovered in Shaft Four. He steals Jimmy’s car and kidnaps a mirage-version of Grannie. Billy and Ezra chase them down and discover Antlers has stranded their friends in a valley thirty miles away. Grannie has independently solved the mystery of the Red Spot Fever and sending her mirage with Antlers was part of her master plan. When Billy and Ezra return to her, Jimmy is projecting ultra-violet light onto a large group of the Shaft Four workers in a deep valley gorge. This counteracts the infra-red radiation that put them into a trance-like state that caused them to wander into the desert.Grannie, Jimmy, Xartal, Billy, and Ezra are triumphantly returning the workers to Shaft Four at the close of the story."
"<s>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet.     I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair.     You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast.     He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about?     The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand?     Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him.     The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him.     Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye.     I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out.     You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't—     Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either.     No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me.  <doc-sep>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers.     Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.     Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet.     A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase.     Let's look around, I said.     We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of      Larynx Incorporated     , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.     C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are.     He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene.     It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them.     It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone.     Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?     Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much.     The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements.     Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen.     Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there?     Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever.     Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando?     Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague?     A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either.     We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.     Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.     There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it.  <doc-sep>    A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?    <doc-sep></s>","In the buildings of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated, two Acoustix ore mining companies on Jupiter’s eighth moon.The Baldric - the largely deserted space between the mining grounds of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. It is a desert-like place with trees that are trunks with melon-shaped tops, and silver birds that can repeat English phrases as well as mimic human forms that appear like mirages. There is also a deep valley gorge within the desert and many eyries which seem similar to oases.There are several scenes aboard kite-propelled cars in the Baldric, as well as visiphone-like video feed of Jimmy’s car that is viewed from the offices of Larynx Incorporated.Shaft Four is one of the locations that Larynx Incorporated mines in on the border of the Baldric, which is talked about often, but is never actually visited by the main characters during the story."
"<s>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers.     Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.     Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet.     A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase.     Let's look around, I said.     We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of      Larynx Incorporated     , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.     C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are.     He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene.     It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them.     It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone.     Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?     Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much.     The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements.     Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen.     Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there?     Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever.     Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando?     Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague?     A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either.     We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.     Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.     There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it.  <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.     Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between.     I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment.     There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.     Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?     She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.     Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you.     She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.     Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance.     But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.     Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four.     Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us.     Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see      Larynx Incorporated     become a far morepowerful exporting concern than      Interstellar Voice     . Antlers Parkdidn't want that.     It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks.      For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.       Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four.     He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.     Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie.  <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction.     If I weren't a realist, I'd say that      Larynx Incorporated     has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them.     Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously.     Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear.     He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.     They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip.     But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said.     Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us.     I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move.     After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of      Larynx Incorporated     . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn.     Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric.     Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.     Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked.     He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding.     Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there.     There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down?     Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights.     A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch.     The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.     Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said.     Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of      Interstellar Voice     , our rival, in a year.     Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory.     There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items.     The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp.  <doc-sep></s>","Jimmy Baker is the manager of the Acoustix ore mining company called Larynx Incorporated on Jupiter’s eighth moon. Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, well known for her authentic background research for her novels. She is exploring the eighth moon of Jupiter for her newest novel.Jimmy has knowledge of Grannie’s work and is hoping she can help him solve the mystery of the Red Spot Fever with her excellent problem solving skills. Grannie does not appear to know Jimmy before their meeting in the Baldric. They have a cordial and collaborative relationship through the story that results in solving the mystery."
"<s>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of      Lady of the Green Flames     ,      Lady of the Runaway Planet     ,      Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast     , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person.     Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of      Interstellar Voice     on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo.     What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.     Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of      Interstellar Voice     . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.     Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.     What's the Baldric? I had asked.     Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.     Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?     I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.     However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on.     What do you mean?     Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.     There are two companies here, he continued,       Interstellar Voice     and      Larynx Incorporated     . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.     There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble.     What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.  <doc-sep>   THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep></s>","It is a precious, lightweight ore found on at least one of Jupiter’s moons (eighth moon) that is highly valuable on Mars, but of no value on Earth. Martians are able to speak out loud as Earthlings do by supersonically amplifying their thoughts. As Martians grow beyond middle age, they are no longer able to do this amplification without the assistance of the Acoustix ore. Thus, it is highly valuable to them.The ore is the only reason for colonization of Jupiter’s moons, and there are two main companies that mine it - Interstellar Voice, Larynx Incorporated. It becomes a source of greed, which causes the manager of Interstellar Voice (Antlers Karn) to attempt sabotage against the other company, serving as the main climax of the story."
"<s>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images.     The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?     Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied.     Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.     Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.     Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again.     Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.     That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever?     On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady.     Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks.     Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.     Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping.     The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window.     Look here, he said.     Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.     All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.     I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:     Turn it on!     The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.  <doc-sep>   DOUBLE TROUBLE     by CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction     writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot     fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,     I was running in circles—especially since     Grannie became twins every now and then.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      We had left the offices of      Interstellar Voice     three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees.     Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters.     As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.     This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot.     Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks.     Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.     He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.  <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction.     If I weren't a realist, I'd say that      Larynx Incorporated     has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them.     Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously.     Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear.     He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.     They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip.     But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said.     Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us.     I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move.     After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of      Larynx Incorporated     . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn.     Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric.     Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.     Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked.     He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding.     Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there.     There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down?     Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights.     A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch.     The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.     Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said.     Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of      Interstellar Voice     , our rival, in a year.     Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory.     There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items.     The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp.  <doc-sep></s>","The symptoms of the fever are described as “garrulousness” followed by the victims leaving their post and walking into the Baldric desert.The fever is brought on by infra-red rays from Jupiter’s great spot. Normally, people on this moon aren’t coming down with the fever from their regular activities. However, a lens-like device mounted in the window of the worker barracks at Larynx Incorporated projects the infra-red rays from the great spot around the room onto the sleeping workers which puts them into this trance-like state.Antlers Karn is responsible for causing the Red Spot Fever by having the devices installed in his competitors' barracks. He also claims to have developed an antitoxin that would reverse the fever, however, it is implied that this was only a lie to cover up his actions."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","Purnie, an animal, is going to see the ocean on his fifth birthday. He has heard stories about this place, and experiencing it firsthand is surreal for him. Purnie is careful not to disturb the animals he sees along the way because he has frozen time, and everything must resume normally when he unfreezes it. He knows that time-stopping is forbidden for animals his age, but he chooses to believe that his family will be proud of his bravery. Finally, he sees the ocean in front of him, and he resumes time. He does a head-stand and feels weak and dizzy. These feelings are a result of the time-stop, and he knows it. Purnie approaches some humans on the beach. A man named Forbes is in the middle of explaining to his captain, Benson, that he has found 17 planets to claim as his own. Forbes is hellbent on raising his FORBES flag as soon as possible. He is eager to stake his claim to the land and says that his mission is much bigger than real estate alone. Benson retorts that yes, his mission is bigger than just real estate because his paperwork says that Forbes will own all of the inhabitants of the planets he claims as well as the land. The crew members use a special machine and  find radiation emanating from Purnie. Forbes demands that they put the animal in a box. Benson protests and reminds Forbes that it’s against Universal Law, but Forbes insists. Purnie experiences his first-ever impulse to run away with fear when a noose comes towards him. He goes back to pick up his fruit, and Forbes shoots him in the leg. When the man throws the noose again, Purnie involuntarily stops time. He drags himself up the knoll where he originally came from. The humans are astonished when time resumes and Purnie is not where he was a split second ago. They spot him up on top of a pile of petrified logs, and suddenly the logs fall down the hill and pin the men down. Purnie is shocked and regretful. The whole thing was an accident. He deliberately stops time and uses all of his remaining strength to lift the logs off of the humans. Purnie begins to lose consciousness, and he knows that he must resume time or he will die. After pouring all of his strength into this action, time does begin again. The humans resume life and feel as though they have gone mad. They know that they were just facing death by drowning, and now they are free. The logs were so heavy that it would have taken superhuman strength to move them. Forbes, in particular, has really gone mad, and he laughs to himself uncontrollably. Benson believes that Purnie was responsible for moving the logs, but of course that seems physically impossible.  Purnie stares off at the beautiful ocean views and watches the men leave in their vehicle as he dies. "
"<s>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal.     What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening?     I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive!     It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking.     I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there!     Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson!     Are you men all right?     Yes sir, but—     Who saw exactly what happened?     I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs—     I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side.     But what happened, Captain?     Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things.     I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed—     All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes?     He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which.     We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright?     Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!     See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly.     Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee!  <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels.     All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home.     Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich!     Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim.     Bah! Bunch of damn children.     As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away.     He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response.     Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach.     Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now.     There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve.     Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque.     All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow!  <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing.     My God, he's—he's gone.     Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him?     The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone.     Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?     Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?     Well, I'll be damned!     Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way.     Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun!     Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria.     The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand.     I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout.     The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.  <doc-sep></s>","Forbes is the head of the expedition to claim planets, and Benson is the Captain of the crew. Forbes provides all of the money to make the trips possible, and he pays Benson’s and the other mens’ salaries. Captain Benson is responsible for keeping all of the men safe and making sure the trip goes smoothly. Although Forbes is Benson’s superior, Benson does feel the need to speak his mind to Forbes. When Forbes demands that Benson’s crew stop dawdling and hurry up and put his FORBES flag up, Benson tells Forbes that they are only humans. Of course they are interested in the new environment and want to take a moment to look around. He is not afraid to tell Forbes that capturing Purnie or injuring him is against Universal Laws. Benson does not want to take part in illegal activities, and he scoffs at Forbes’ remarks that he is a pioneer and not a real estate developer. He openly tells Forbes that he knows he will triple his money after claiming these planets, so it’s not like he’s doing it for the greater good of humanity. Benson also asks Forbes if he’s going to take his 17 new planets back home with him to San Diego. It’s clear that Benson has little respect for Forbes and the way he conducts his business, but at the same time, he needs a job and Forbes is providing him with an incredible opportunity to survey all sorts of different planets.Benson has to face Forbes’ wrath when Purnie goes missing after Forbes shoots him and they attempt to put a noose around his neck. After Purnie unfreezes time, the men are confused as to what they just saw. Forbes turns to Benson and tells him that he is holding him responsible for this mishap even though there is zero evidence that Benson did anything wrong.After the logs fall on the men and Purnie uses all of his remaining strength to save their lives, Forbes is completely out of his mind. Benson finds it a bit humorous, especially since he has an inkling that Purnie, the bug-eyed creature, was behind the whole thing. He does not respect Forbes and thinks his disconnect to reality and repetitive laughter is what he deserves for the way he treated Purnie, himself, and the crew. "
"<s>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  <doc-sep>   BEACH SCENE     By MARSHALL KING     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         It was a fine day at the beach       for Purnie's game—but his new       friends played very rough!        Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last.     When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time.     On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were.     His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi.     With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean.     If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean.     He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five!     I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off.  <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation.     He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself.     He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.     Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some?     The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.     Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!     There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up.     The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time.     The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand.     As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position.     Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals.     Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty.  <doc-sep></s>","The unnamed planet where the story takes place is breathtaking, colorful, and lively with all sorts of fauna and flora unknown to Earth. There is blue moss on the forest floors, bubbling streams, and orange pools of water. There are also bees, purple clouds, petrified logs by the ocean, and three-legged animals who eat seaweed. The orange ocean waves crash against the sand, and two moons hover in the sky. Humans have never touched this land, so Purnie is surprised that he has never heard his brothers or parents talk about the two-legged animals who make strange sounds. He does not understand that they have just landed their ship here and are experiencing the land for the first time. "
"<s>   BEACH SCENE     By MARSHALL KING     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         It was a fine day at the beach       for Purnie's game—but his new       friends played very rough!        Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last.     When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time.     On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were.     His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi.     With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean.     If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean.     He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five!     I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off.  <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation.     He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself.     He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.     Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some?     The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.     Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!     There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up.     The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time.     The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand.     As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position.     Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals.     Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty.  <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  <doc-sep></s>","Although Purnie is an animal and not a human, he plays a very important role in the story. Through his understanding of the world, we learn that he has never felt real fear before. This makes sense because although he has been warned about stopping time, and he has explicitly been told that it could lead to his death, he decides to go ahead with his birthday plan anyway and stop time and see the ocean. When the humans throw a noose at him in an attempt to capture him, he is shocked to find that his body instinctively runs from it. He doesn’t really experience the fear because he wants to play with them and has no interest in leaving the fun, but his natural impulses as an animal save his life at this moment. Humans have never before visited his planet, so this means that no other animal Purnie has come in contact with has made his body react this way. Purnie also demonstrates how evil Forbes is for trying to capture and kill such an innocent and caring animal. When Benson reminds Forbes that it’s illegal to shoot or capture Purnie, Forbes does not care at all. He wants the animal that is emitting radiation because he believes he can make a profit off of him. The value of Purnie’s life means nothing to him. However, as soon as Purnie feels as though his “friends” are in danger, he is willing to risk his own life by stopping time to help them. Purnie feels guilt, regret, and sorrow when he accidentally causes the petrified logs to fall on the men, yet Forbes has none of those feelings when he shoots Purnie in the leg and causes him pain. "
"<s>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing.     My God, he's—he's gone.     Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him?     The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone.     Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?     Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?     Well, I'll be damned!     Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way.     Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun!     Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria.     The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand.     I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout.     The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.  <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation.     He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself.     He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.     Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some?     The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.     Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!     There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up.     The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time.     The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand.     As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position.     Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals.     Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty.  <doc-sep></s>","Forbes believes he can control anyone and anything he comes in contact with. His first order of business upon landing on the gorgeous planet is to put up his flag emblazoned with his name. When Benson reminds him that the crew members are interested in taking a moment to look around, Forbes reprimands him for suggesting that they have the right to waste his money. He believes that putting up his flag is a symbol of defeat, and he is incredibly eager to take over a planet he literally just landed on and knows almost nothing about. He incessantly talks about the 17 other planets he has already conquered, and he calls himself a pioneer. Although Forbes definitely makes a lot of money by claiming these planets, he is more interested in the control and fame it brings him than the money he will inevitably make. The first time that Purnie freezes time to escape the noose after Forbes shoots him in the leg, Forbes is incredibly confused but willing to blame the glitch on Benson. He shot Purnie after explicitly being told not to, so he assumes that Benson secretly managed to aid Purnie in getting away. He is furious at this act because capturing the animal emitting radiation is very important to him. He doesn't care if it’s illegal or immoral. He wants control of the planet, the animal, and the crew. The second time that Purnie freezes time, Forbes cannot simply ignore it. He knows that he saw the petrified logs falling down the hill, he knows that he saw several crew members pinned under the logs, about to drown, and he knows that he himself was in a near-death situation one second and saved in the next. There is simply no explanation in his mind for what occurred, and his brain can’t compute the mysterious event. He laughs hysterically because he can’t process the information that his brain receives. He was about to die, and now he is perfectly fine, and he has no explanation for the chain of events. "
"<s>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.     Ri looked away from his face.     Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't      seen     a farn beast.     Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir.     Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets.     I meant in our system, sir.     Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system.     Ri waited uneasily, not answering.     Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so?     Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been.     Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide.     It was an honor, sir.     Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide.     ... I'm flattered, sir.     Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.     I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir....     Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.     Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir.     Extrone bent forward.       Know     me and love me.     Yes, sir.      Know     you and love you, sir, Ri said.     Get out! Extrone said.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep></s>","Extrone is a very important person of influence who is on a hunting trip looking for farn beasts on an outer planet. He has hired guides, Ri and Mia, who are businessmen who have successfully shot a farn beast on a prior private trip. They attempted to conceal their killing of a farn beast on that trip, however, the word got out and now Extrone has forced them (seemingly against their will) to be the guides for his own trip. Ri and Mia do not turn out to be very good guides. Mia is unsupportive of Extrone and suspicious of his activities and potential plans to violently attack the aliens, and Ri is fearful of that talk and of Extrone himself causing him to be unhelpful as a guide.Extrone refers to being loved by his “subjects” suggesting he has a position of royalty or power. The military is at his disposal and seem eager to please him. He is highly focused on finding and killing a farn beast any way possible - and attempts sacrificing his guide Ri as bait for the animal to do it. He kills Mia by shooting him in the back after Ri accuses him of intent to kill Extrone, suggesting Extrone is a violent ruler.Extrone’s focus is on killing a farn beast and this blinds him to the existence of an alien trap on the planet. It is heavily implied that the aliens have intentions to do harm to Extrone, and it is revealed that his fixation on the farn beast led him directly into a trap set by the aliens to capture him."
"<s>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.     Ri looked away from his face.     Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't      seen     a farn beast.     Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir.     Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets.     I meant in our system, sir.     Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system.     Ri waited uneasily, not answering.     Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so?     Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been.     Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide.     It was an honor, sir.     Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide.     ... I'm flattered, sir.     Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.     I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir....     Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.     Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir.     Extrone bent forward.       Know     me and love me.     Yes, sir.      Know     you and love you, sir, Ri said.     Get out! Extrone said.  <doc-sep>   HUNT the HUNTER     BY KRIS NEVILLE     Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course using live bait is the best     way to lure dangerous alien animals ...     unless it turns out that you are the bait!      We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them.     Extrone asked, Is there a pass?     Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too.     Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said.     Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen!     Eh? Extrone said.     Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us.     Extrone raised his eyebrows.     This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.     It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right!     Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge.     Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir.     We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry.     Yes, sir.     Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here!     He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge.     Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so.     Ri shrugged hopelessly.     Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble.     There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too.     That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus.     Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right.     It's the Hunting Club he don't like.     I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse?  <doc-sep></s>","The farn beast is capable of killing humans and aliens. It resides on alien planets, but is rare within the human-occupied system. It is thought by Extrone that Ri may have been one of the only humans to ever see and shoot one.They are described as having long fangs and being carnivorous. Their main sound is a coughing noise, which can be used to locate how far away they are. They do indeed seem attracted to humans, as they are drawn to Ri screaming when he is placed as bait at the watering hole.The farn beast is significant, because as Extrone and his party are focused on hunting them, it is revealed that the beast itself is being used as bait by aliens to lure Extrone to the planet. "
"<s>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.     Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard.     We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said.     Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow.     Lin nodded.     The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters.     It's not      only     the killing, Lin echoed.     You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it?     I know, Lin said.     But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too.     The farn beast coughed again; nearer.     It's a different one, Lin said.     How do you know?     Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?     Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream!     Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide.     There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait.     Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.     I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink.     Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety.     No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting.     Killing?     Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly.  <doc-sep>With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated.     And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.     Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug.     Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground.     Lin! he said.     His personal bearer came loping toward him.     Have you read that manual I gave you?     Lin nodded. Yes.     Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them.     Lin waited.     Now I can spit on them, which pleases me.     The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said.     Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?     I believe they're carnivorous, sir.     An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen.     They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man—     An alien? Extrone corrected.     There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir.     Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?     Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir.     Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?     Lin shrugged. Maybe.     I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people      all     afraid of you.     The farn beasts, according to the manual....     You are very insistent on one subject.     ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir.     All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful.     In the distance, a farn beast coughed.     Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here!     Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.  <doc-sep>Extrone wants to see you, Lin said.     Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see      me     for?     I don't know, Lin said curtly.     Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to      do     anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....     You better come along, Lin said, turning.     Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle.     Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh?     Yes, sir.     Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly.     Well, sir, they're ... uh....     Pretty frightening?     No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.     But      you     weren't afraid of them, were you?     No, sir. No, because....     Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme.     I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive.     Of      course     you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope.     What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified.     Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait.     No!     Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you      can     scream,by the way?     Ri swallowed.     We could find a way to make you.     There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose.     You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you.     Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one?     Extrone shrugged.     I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.      He     killed a farn beast before      I     did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he—     He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.     Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't....     Extrone said, Which one is he?     That one. Right over there.     The one with his back to me?     Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.     Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.     Ri was greenish. You ... you....     Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist.     Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.     Tie it, Extrone ordered.     No, sir. Please. Oh,      please     don't, sir.     Tie it, Extrone said inexorably.     Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.  <doc-sep></s>","Lin is Extrone’s personal bearer who does anything that is asked of him by Extrone. Extrone is pleased when people are fearful of him, but it appears that Lin may not have a fear or may be suppressing it. Lin appears very loyal to Extrone, which is proven when he rejects an attempt of bribery by Ri who wants to know if he is in danger by Extrone’s plan. Lin does Extrone’s bidding by tying up Ri and staking him out for bait to lure the farn beast.However, when Lin and Extrone hide in a nearby tree to shoot the farn beast when they come after Ri, Lin’s actions become more sinister and it is revealed that he may have different beliefs from Extrone. Lin says hunting animals should be done for reasons like survival, not just for killing - which is the opposite of what Extrone believes - that the waiting and then the killing is the appeal. It is never clear if Lin is part of the alien trapping of Extrone that results, or whether he was as blind to it as Extrone."
"<s>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.     Ri looked away from his face.     Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't      seen     a farn beast.     Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir.     Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets.     I meant in our system, sir.     Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system.     Ri waited uneasily, not answering.     Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so?     Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been.     Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide.     It was an honor, sir.     Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide.     ... I'm flattered, sir.     Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.     I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir....     Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.     Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir.     Extrone bent forward.       Know     me and love me.     Yes, sir.      Know     you and love you, sir, Ri said.     Get out! Extrone said.  <doc-sep>   HUNT the HUNTER     BY KRIS NEVILLE     Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course using live bait is the best     way to lure dangerous alien animals ...     unless it turns out that you are the bait!      We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them.     Extrone asked, Is there a pass?     Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too.     Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said.     Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen!     Eh? Extrone said.     Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us.     Extrone raised his eyebrows.     This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.     It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right!     Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge.     Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir.     We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry.     Yes, sir.     Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here!     He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge.     Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so.     Ri shrugged hopelessly.     Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble.     There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too.     That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus.     Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right.     It's the Hunting Club he don't like.     I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse?  <doc-sep></s>","On the surface of a planet which is wooded in scrub forest and one of the few places known to have farn beasts. The hunting party is next to a ridge that would be a significant effort to cross, and there are “blast sites” around the woods. The hunting party also uses a nearby water hole location to lure farn beasts while hiding up in a tree.Extrone’s camp set up by “bearers” and his tent, which is extravagantly decorated, are also scenes used throughout the story."
"<s>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  <doc-sep>   HUNT the HUNTER     BY KRIS NEVILLE     Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course using live bait is the best     way to lure dangerous alien animals ...     unless it turns out that you are the bait!      We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them.     Extrone asked, Is there a pass?     Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too.     Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said.     Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen!     Eh? Extrone said.     Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us.     Extrone raised his eyebrows.     This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.     It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right!     Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge.     Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir.     We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry.     Yes, sir.     Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here!     He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge.     Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so.     Ri shrugged hopelessly.     Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble.     There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too.     That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus.     Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right.     It's the Hunting Club he don't like.     I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse?  <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that.     No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system!     The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly.           Think.     If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.     Ri looked around at the shadows.     That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing      him     to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy.     No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance.     You know that's not right.     Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen.     When the invasion starts, he'll have to command      all     their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth.     You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.     Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess?     Ri swallowed sickly.     Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?     Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat.  <doc-sep></s>","They are businessmen that have been recruited (seemingly against their will) as guides for Extrone on a hunting trip seeking to kill farn beasts. They had come to the same location once before on a hunting trip together in good relations, and killed their guide to keep their finding of the farn beasts a secret. Initially, they seem to be bonded in their misery about being forced into this situation by Extrone. However, this relationship changes and deteriorates over the story.Mia is highly suspicious of Extrone, his possible appointment by the Army, and what he thinks is an impending invasion of the alien system to be led by Extrone. Ri has had several personal meetings with Extrone and is completely terrified of him and what he is capable of. Ri rejects the notions suggested by Mia and is scared to be caught speaking of them. When Extrone threatens to put Ri out for bait to lure the farn beasts, he rats Mia out as having intention to kill Extrone in order to avoid his own death. The plan fails when Extrone kills Mia on the spot by shooting him in the back, thus ending their relationship."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   Bodyguard     By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course       a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that       he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!        The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.     Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking.     As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous.     Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.     The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered.     Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here.     The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management.     You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me.      You could use one     was implied.     And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Gabriel (Gabe) Lockard, an attractive man, is sitting in a bar with humans and extraterrestrials. He knocks over a man's drink while he talks to a girl. He offers to pay for a new suit, showing off his wealth. The other man reaches to throw his drink at Lockard but is stopped by a third man wearing a gray suit, who seems to know Lockard. This man warns Lockard to be careful, and when he leaves, Lockard tells the woman he's with that he's never seen him before, even though they talked as if they were acquaintances. The stranger visits a locker at a nearby airstation, puts most of his belongings inside, including all forms of identification, and sets the lock to the word bodyguard. He climbs into a helicab, where he pressures the driver into taking him to a zarquil game. This man has been floating around without an identity, but operates as a flying dutchman, floating between zarquil games. Another day, Lockard crashes a helicar on a rainy fall night in a dark corner of a degrading city, and a fat stranger pulls him and his wife out of the helicar before it exploded. The man who saved them has the ID of Dominic Bianchi, a milgot dealer who seems to have disappeared in the past few weeks. Mrs. Lockard warns her husband to be more careful lest something happen to him. It seems the stranger's job is to rotate identities and protect Lockard. On yet another day, a thin stranger chases off a thief with his gun, and checks in on Mr. and Mrs. Lockard. Mrs. Lockard realizes that he is the same man who pulled them out of their aircar crash, and was the man wearing the gray suit at the bar. He has been changing bodies this whole time. She wants to know why, but the stranger suggests she ask Gabriel. She suspects they've been running from this stranger, and has started to be able to identify him, which the stranger is disappointed by as he explains it is not Gabriel he is helping. Because Gabriel is going to run-down cities, the bodies the stranger is getting are not well-vetted, and can't last too long. It turns out the stranger was the original Gabriel Lockard, the implication being that he's trying to protect his original body. As the stranger tries to swap bodies again, he finds that nobody wants the one he's in. He's offered a body that is healthy but likely a criminal, for three times the usual fee, and the stranger accepts the expensive deal. After the bodyswap, he recognizes the man as someone police are ordered to burn on sights. Mrs. Lockard interrogates her husband about his stolen body, which starts an argument. She recognizes he can't get his old body back, but lies and says she'd stay with him if he switched back, and the two talk about how ugly he was. "
"<s>   Bodyguard     By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course       a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that       he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!        The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.     Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking.     As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous.     Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.     The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered.     Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here.     The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management.     You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me.      You could use one     was implied.     And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face.  <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination      bodyguard     , he went out into the street.     If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears.     The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked.     I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there.     Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?     But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.     Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?     Is there a good zarquil game in town?     The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker.     I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.     Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em.     But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly.     Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.     I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.     You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly.      II     It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.     Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head.     Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.     Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.     To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.     Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in.     And that's no joke, the fat man agreed.     The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course?     Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.           Mrs.     , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she?     I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.     There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill....     Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.  <doc-sep>It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again.     Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay....     If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him?     I am not helping      him     . And he knows that.     You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change.     Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake.     She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that.     Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one?     This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage.     How—long will it last you?     Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it?     But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most.     Ask your husband.     The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath.     He signaled and a cab came.     Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face.  <doc-sep></s>","The young woman who Lockard is sitting with at the bar at the beginning of the story is the woman who would eventually become his wife. Her name is Helen, but she is mostly referred to as Mrs. Lockard. By the time the helicar crash happens, they have been married, and by the time they are almost robbed, they have been married six months. Her role is most clear when she is talking to the stranger after the robbery. She is the one who explicitly pieces together that the stranger she has seen, although varying in form at each event, has been the same person. The gray suit, the fat man, and the scrawny man have all been the same person. It is her perspective that changes Lockard's life and his possible path for the future, and the two of them have been on the run from the stranger the whole time they've been married. She gets enough information from the stranger to be able to confront her husband about what's happening, allowing her to uncover the whole story."
"<s>   Bodyguard     By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course       a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that       he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!        The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.     Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking.     As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous.     Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.     The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered.     Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here.     The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management.     You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me.      You could use one     was implied.     And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face.  <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination      bodyguard     , he went out into the street.     If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears.     The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked.     I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there.     Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?     But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.     Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?     Is there a good zarquil game in town?     The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker.     I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.     Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em.     But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly.     Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.     I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.     You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly.      II     It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.     Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head.     Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.     Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.     To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.     Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in.     And that's no joke, the fat man agreed.     The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course?     Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.           Mrs.     , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she?     I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.     There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill....     Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.  <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such.     When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.     The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.     The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well.     The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting.     However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked.     One, the fat man answered.      III     The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this?     I really think Gabriel      must     be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?     It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.     The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you      are     thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...?     The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem.     Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.  <doc-sep></s>","The stranger in the gray suit at the bar in the beginning of the story happens to be the original Gabriel Lockard, and it is hinted that the original Lockard only switched bodies because the current one had convinced him to when they'd had too much to drink. The stranger is keeping an eye on the current Gabriel Lockard to protect the body from harm. He does this by participating in zarquil games, run by the alien race the Vinzz, which allows him to swap bodies with other people. If he is in a reputable area, there are careful checks to make sure that these bodies are healthy, but he ends up with a sick body partway through the story, which forces him to take the body of a criminal as his only option because nobody will buy the sick body from him. The stranger's desire to protect his original body pushes him to become obsessed with this task, and it is his only real goal. He follows Lockard throughout the story, switching bodies every time he is seen, which forces Lockard and his wife to flee from him, staying constantly on the run. Lockard is used to this stranger being around, and tries to avoid making him angry, but there is a sense that he is sick of being saved and wants to live his own life. Lockard even offers to buy the stranger a drink at the beginning to try to work something out, seemingly exhausted from being followed. His single-mindedness is shown by the fact that the stranger's password on his locker is bodyguard, in reference to his original body."
"<s>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such.     When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.     The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.     The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well.     The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting.     However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked.     One, the fat man answered.      III     The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this?     I really think Gabriel      must     be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?     It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.     The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you      are     thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...?     The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem.     Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.  <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe?     I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?     Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything.     You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude.     The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?     Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful.       When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care.     Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse.  <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination      bodyguard     , he went out into the street.     If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears.     The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked.     I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there.     Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?     But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.     Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?     Is there a good zarquil game in town?     The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker.     I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.     Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em.     But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly.     Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.     I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.     You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly.      II     It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.     Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head.     Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.     Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.     To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.     Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in.     And that's no joke, the fat man agreed.     The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course?     Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.           Mrs.     , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she?     I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.     There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill....     Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.  <doc-sep></s>","An alien race called the Vinzz, from Altair's seventh planet, run the zarquil games as a way to make money so that they can buy slaves. Through these games, humans are able to swap bodies so they can experience what it is like to live as someone else. People who participate frequently are known as flying dutchmen, and the stranger in the story is called this a few times. These games are illegal and dangerous, and you must have a lot of money to participate. In larger cities with more resources and oversight, all of the potential bodies go through a detailed vetting process to make sure that the body in question does not have any illnesses or a criminal past. When the stranger ends up with a sick body near the end of the story, his only option is to accept a body with a criminal past because nobody will accept an ill body at a reputable game. Public perception shows that society looks down on these games. The cab driver that the stranger meets explicitly says that he looks down on dutchmen, saying he hates them, and very reluctantly takes the stranger to a zarquil game because he is promised the money and he knows the stranger has a gun. It is this game that caused the original Gabriel Lockard to lose his body and identity, and it is through this game that he rotates through nameless people in order to follow the new Lockard to keep an eye on the body. "
"<s>   Bodyguard     By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course       a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that       he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!        The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.     Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking.     As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous.     Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.     The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered.     Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here.     The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management.     You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me.      You could use one     was implied.     And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face.  <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination      bodyguard     , he went out into the street.     If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears.     The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked.     I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there.     Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?     But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.     Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?     Is there a good zarquil game in town?     The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker.     I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.     Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em.     But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly.     Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.     I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.     You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly.      II     It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.     Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head.     Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.     Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.     To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.     Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in.     And that's no joke, the fat man agreed.     The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course?     Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.           Mrs.     , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she?     I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.     There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill....     Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.  <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe?     I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?     Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything.     You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude.     The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?     Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful.       When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care.     Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse.  <doc-sep></s>","The stranger is actually the original Gabriel Lockard, and the man we know as Lockard now is the man who took this body a while ago. The new Lockard has some sense of who the stranger is, though he knows he will never recognize him because the stranger switches bodies frequently. The stranger is keeping an eye out on his original body, trying to protect it, with a bit of hope that he may one day get it back. They have a tenuous and superficial relationship, with the new Lockard being somewhat hesitant about the stranger's involvement in his life. The stranger makes it clear that it is not Lockard he is protecting, but just the body he is in. Through this story, the stranger keeps a man from throwing a glass in Lockard's face at a bar, pulls Lockard and his wife out of a helicar crash, and stops a robbery from happening. There is bitterness and exhaustion on both sides of this relationship, and at the beginning of the story the new Lockard tries to offer the stranger a drink so they can sort things out, but the stranger refuses and it seems he would only be appeased if he had his original body back. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions!     Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens!     No, the machine admitted.     If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill      all of us     !     The alien electronic brain was silent.     By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled.     If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure.     My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem.     Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater.     A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness.     You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon.     Kane released his grip on my throat.     See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?     I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","On the surface of the moon, the American base (Freedom 19) is headed by Major Winship, with his three men, Captain Wilkins, Captain Lawler, and Lieutenant Chandler. The Soviets of Base Garagin are conducting a seismic test to learn more about the depths of the moon. The Americans protested it, as their base is not as strongly built, but the Russians went ahead anyway. With a language barrier and poor communication, the Americans don’t know when they are going to perform the test, so they stand outside in their suits waiting. After a few hours, a moonquake occurs, rippling through the surface. The quake caused a leak in their base, which Winship tries and fails to fix with a marker and a plastic sheet. He complains that the Russians did this on purpose, to try and force them off the moon, but they have three weeks of emergency air. They can try and fix it. They are unable to use the transmission since there is no air in the base. Winship orders his men to find the caulking solution, but it has hardened and dried out. He orders Lawler and Chandler to make the 60-minute-round-trip journey to Base Garagin to ask for help. Though Soviet General Finogenov denies it, Winship still wonders if this was intentional. Wilkins and Winship share a meal of gross nutrition tablets. Wilkins, the resident tech, hooks Winship up to the radio within his suit, so he can speak into the radio. With all the complicated wiring, Winship’s air supply is cut off, and he motions to Wilkins to fix it. Earth is on the line, but he tries to not make his problem known. After Wilkins fixes it, Winship informs them of their difficulties and is told that a replacement could arrive in 10 days and that the Russians formally apologized. Chandler and Lawler arrive with a 55-gallon barrel of caulking agent, along with another compound that must be mixed in. Displeased by the Russian’s excessiveness, the team figures out a way to successfully mix it. Wilkins creates an electric mixer, while the rest move the barrel inside the dome with great difficulty. They mix the barrel and quickly realize that it is a chemical epoxy, one that reacts to temperature. The heat of the mixer and the dome causes the epoxy to heat up drastically. The men escape to the airlock and watch as the barrel explodes, the fire it causes using up all their remaining oxygen. "
"<s>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices.     This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand.     The pictures in my history books— Michael began.     Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word      history     ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir.     Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part.     Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble.     He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air.     I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it.     Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too.     Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away.  <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!     Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.     The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke.     Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from?     The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong?     Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.     From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.  <doc-sep></s>","As can be seen from the beginning, Base Gagarin and the small group of Americans have a slightly contentious relationship. Even the title of the story, The Winning of the Moon, emphasizes the undercurrent of war and competition that informs the way they interact with each other. The story begins with potentially purposeful miscommunication between the Russians and the Americans. The Soviet base is running an underground seismic wave test, the likes of which could release after-shocks and tremors. Such a quake could damage the American dome, meager in comparison with Base Gagarin. The Soviets put Pinov on the line, who only speaks Russian. Without the ability to communicate, the Americans were stuck outside on the moon for hours, waiting to see if the seismic eruption could be seen or felt. Feeling like idiots, one goes inside, just as an aftershock causes a leak in their dome. They instantly blame the Russians, especially since the Americans protested such a test. This series of unfortunate events continues as the Americans quickly realize that their supplies are not able to fix the leak. They must ask the Russians for help, even after complaining to their home base about their actions. Base Gagarin is huge compared to the American dome. General Finogenov even has a wooden desk in his office, along with other earthly amenities that the Americans have been deprived of. The Russians have been on the moon for six years longer than the Americans, which could explain their extensive supplies. They give the Americans a 55-gallon mixture to fix the leak, however, the language barrier prevents them from realizing what kind of epoxy it is. This miscommunication leads to the barrel exploding and further destroying the American dome. It’s fair to say that it’s not smooth sailing on the moon. "
"<s>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions!     Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens!     No, the machine admitted.     If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill      all of us     !     The alien electronic brain was silent.     By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled.     If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure.     My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem.     Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater.     A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness.     You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon.     Kane released his grip on my throat.     See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?     I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.  <doc-sep>   The Winning of the Moon     BY KRIS NEVILLE     The enemy was friendly enough.     Trouble was—their friendship     was as dangerous as their hate!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning.     Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans.     Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.     Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown?     Is Pinov, came the reply. Help?           Nyet     , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom?     Is Pinov, came the reply.     Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation.     Boom! said Pinov happily.     When?     Boom—boom! said Pinov.     Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English.     He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over?     No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.     Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on.     In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more.     Static?     Nope.     We'll get static on these things.     A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.     Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face.     Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now.     I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?     Is Pinov. Help?           Nyet.          Pinov's still there, Major Winship said.     Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to.     I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said.     Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in.     Let's all—     No. I've got to cool off.     Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago.     The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all.     Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep.     Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","The Winning of the Moon by Kris Neville takes place on the moon, although exactly what moon is never specified. The moon itself has a fairly uneven surface, especially after the moonquake rips through its bases. Most of the story takes place inside of the American base, a mere 500 square feet. It is cramped inside, filled to the brim with equipment, tools, and supplies necessary for the moon. The American men slept on bunks that rose up from the floor. Cables hung from the ceiling and snaked across the walls, bringing energy into the dome using solar power. The base itself is in the shape of a dome with an airlock leading to the outside. The Russian base, Base Gagarin, is incredibly different. They’ve got three buildings that make up the base, the biggest of which is 3,000 square feet. With luxuries like wooden furniture, fresh lemons from Earth, and nutmeg, the Soviet base has everything the Americans lacked. "
"<s>   The Winning of the Moon     BY KRIS NEVILLE     The enemy was friendly enough.     Trouble was—their friendship     was as dangerous as their hate!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning.     Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans.     Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.     Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown?     Is Pinov, came the reply. Help?           Nyet     , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom?     Is Pinov, came the reply.     Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation.     Boom! said Pinov happily.     When?     Boom—boom! said Pinov.     Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English.     He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over?     No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.     Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on.     In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more.     Static?     Nope.     We'll get static on these things.     A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.     Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face.     Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now.     I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?     Is Pinov. Help?           Nyet.          Pinov's still there, Major Winship said.     Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to.     I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said.     Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in.     Let's all—     No. I've got to cool off.     Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago.     The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all.     Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep.     Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put.  <doc-sep>  LOOK, HE told the girl, You got any idea of what it costs to maintaina racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew,my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged tenyears ago. I      can't     get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week?You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The onlysmart thing to do is wait a while.     Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. That's what I've been tryingto say.      Why     do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can'tyou sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trainedpilot.     He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tensefrom the strain of trying to make her understand. Now herelaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, andthe first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it wouldnot return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in thealmost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know.     I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot, he said quietly. The Foo Isa means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into anyplant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing—      any     of them—andpick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have asgood as said so. After that— His voice had regained some of its formeranimation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. I'vetold you all this before.     The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back toher, and put her fingers around his wrist. Darling! she said. If it'sthat      rocket     pilot business again....     Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. It's always 'that      rocket     pilot business,' he said, mimicking her voice. Damn it, I'mthe only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred andfifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and maththan anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words likebrennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of      Colliers     , and I— He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shruggedagain.     I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job,and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait along time.     All she could think of to say was, But, Darling, there      aren't     anyman-carrying rockets.     That's not my fault, he said, and walked away from her.       A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line witha scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest.    <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions!     Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens!     No, the machine admitted.     If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill      all of us     !     The alien electronic brain was silent.     By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled.     If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure.     My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem.     Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater.     A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness.     You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon.     Kane released his grip on my throat.     See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?     I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.  <doc-sep></s>","After the Russians conduct their seismic test, a moonquake erupts and tears a leak in the American dome. This leak is significant because it is the first of a series of slightly cataclysmic events. As well, it highlights the strained and tense relationship between the Russians and the Americans. Major Winship accused the Russians of deliberately injuring their base, further showing how contentious their relationship is. General Finogenov ardently denies this, however, and says that their base had no damage at all. After trying and failing to fix the leak with their own supplies, two of the Americans are forced to travel to Base Gagarin and borrow their resin. This ends up backfiring, however, as the epoxy quickly heats up and explodes as they mix the two components together. The explosion further damages the dome and takes away the American’s entire air supply. As well, the seismic testing was greatly discouraged and protested by the Americans. "
"<s>   The Winning of the Moon     BY KRIS NEVILLE     The enemy was friendly enough.     Trouble was—their friendship     was as dangerous as their hate!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning.     Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans.     Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.     Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown?     Is Pinov, came the reply. Help?           Nyet     , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom?     Is Pinov, came the reply.     Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation.     Boom! said Pinov happily.     When?     Boom—boom! said Pinov.     Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English.     He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over?     No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.     Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on.     In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more.     Static?     Nope.     We'll get static on these things.     A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.     Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face.     Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now.     I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?     Is Pinov. Help?           Nyet.          Pinov's still there, Major Winship said.     Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to.     I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said.     Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in.     Let's all—     No. I've got to cool off.     Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago.     The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all.     Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep.     Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put.  <doc-sep>After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer.     If you've got all that power....     That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid.     Maybe they don't make aluminum desks.     They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off.     Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report.     That's going to take awhile.     It's something to do while we wait.     I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay?     Okay, Major Winship gestured.     They roused Earth.     This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase.     At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.     This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship.     Just a moment.     Is everything all right?     Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.     A-Okay, he said. Just a moment.     What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong.     Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace.     Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other.     Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism.     This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.     Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak?     Air, Major Winship said silently.     Leak?     Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.  <doc-sep>He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again.     Charlie! Charlie!     I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay!     It's—     There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.     Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?     Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly.     There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath.     I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel.     Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help?     Major Winship whinnied in disgust.       Nyet!      he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned.     Tough.     They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.     Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right.     I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers?     By the lug cabinet.     Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later.     He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured.     Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it.     He moved for the plastic sheeting.     We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate.     Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that?     Not yet.     I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads.     There was a splatter of static.     Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible.     Still coming out.     Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor.     Come on in, he said dryly.  <doc-sep></s>","Major Winship is one of the few Americans who is currently living on base on the surface of the moon. He is in charge as the Commanding Officer of Freedom 19, as he outranks both the Captains and the first Lieutenant. After watching the moonquake shake the surface from inside the base, Major Winship quickly realizes that the quake ripped a hole in the dome itself. He attempts to fix it with a marker, then with a plastic sheet, but both fail. Their caulking compound has hardened and is completely unusable. Winship accuses the Russians of causing the quake and leak on purpose, but the General vehemently denies his claims. They try to call into Earth but realize that without air, there’d be no sound. So, they have to find another way.  Stuck in his suit until they can restore air to the base, Winship sends Lt. Chandler and Capt. Lawler to ask the Soviets for help. Winship shares a meal with Wilkins, and then the Captain connected to Winship with a series of wires to the radio. This way he’d be able to communicate while in his suit. He suffers a major mistake with the wiring, however, when his air supply is cut off. He motions to Wilkins who saves him, reconnecting the lost cable, and Winship lets those on Earth know what happened. They let him know that they’ve received a formal apology and that they will send a replacement in ten days’ time. Once Chandler and Lawler return, Winship is faced with a new problem: how to mix and activate the 55-gallon fix for the leak. Wilkins creates an electric mixer, and they bring the barrel inside to mix. The barrel becomes red-hot and looks to be on the verge of combustion. The men scramble and get to the airlock. The barrel explodes and the flames use up all the oxygen. Winship is faced with an even greater problem now: how to survive. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins on a scoutship with 29 fourteen-year-olds. The narrator of the story is Mia Havero, she is short and skinny. Her father is the Chairman of the Council. The fourteen-year-olds are being dropped on a planet called Tintera for their Trial. Mia details her dislike of the planet. She rides on her horse Ninc for three days before she comes across other people. The men and Mia get into a disagreement because she does not want to join them. Mia proceeds to point her weapon and them. She tells them to drop their rifles on the ground and only lets them return to retrieve them once Mia and the men are a 20-minute ride away from the weapons. Mia continues on riding her horse and passes a town where she meets more people. Eventually, Mia ends up at a campsite where she intends to rest and eat. However, the men who she encountered before and flashed her weapon at, find her at the campsite. She is grabbed from behind. The men have their grip on her, preventing her from escaping from them. The men destroy her pickup signal and she is punched in the face by one of the men. "
"<s>   DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN     BY ALEXEI PANSHIN     The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim     in the miasma of a planet without     spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp.     There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me.     He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down?     I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything.     My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation.     After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot.     Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob.     The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council.     I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public.  <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that.     No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system!     The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly.           Think.     If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.     Ri looked around at the shadows.     That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing      him     to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy.     No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance.     You know that's not right.     Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen.     When the invasion starts, he'll have to command      all     their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth.     You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.     Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess?     Ri swallowed sickly.     Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?     Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat.  <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  <doc-sep></s>","Mia is taught that those who destroyed Earth were not smart and that they deserve punishment for their actions. According to her, Earth was evacuated because of overpopulation. People had too many children that required more resources than Earth was capable of providing. Consequently, there was a fight over the remaining resources that caused a war. Mia has great-great-grandparents that were among those who anticipated the destruction of Earth and prepared to leave. In addition, Mia talks about how humans left Earth. She says there were Great Ships built around 2025. The Great Ships and other things went into the Solar System in 2041. The humans that escaped established 112 colonies in the first 16 years. During this retelling of what she was taught, she emphasizes that horses were important to the success of the new colonies. "
"<s>   DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN     BY ALEXEI PANSHIN     The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim     in the miasma of a planet without     spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp.     There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me.     He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down?     I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything.     My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation.     After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot.     Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob.     The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council.     I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public.  <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary.     Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.     Hey, you! Extrone called.     The two of them turned immediately.     You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks.     Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off.     Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said.     No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.     They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides.     We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us.     They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.     He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him.     Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here.     Mia said, The first time,      we     weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then.     They fought a few yards more into the forest.     Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.     This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago!     Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile?     No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one      he     brought.     The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast?     So? Ri said. But who are they?  <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that.     No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system!     The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly.           Think.     If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.     Ri looked around at the shadows.     That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing      him     to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy.     No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance.     You know that's not right.     Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen.     When the invasion starts, he'll have to command      all     their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth.     You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.     Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess?     Ri swallowed sickly.     Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?     Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat.  <doc-sep></s>","Mia discusses how she does not like different planets for many reasons, gravity included. In addition, she does not like the idea of animals that can crawl on her or vegetation existing unintentionally. She also does not like the smells of different planets. When Mia sees individuals with more than one child, she becomes nauseous at the sight. To Mia, that seems reckless to have so many children as she is taught that it was the cause of Earth’s destruction. Another occurrence that Mia finds interesting is when she sees an old man during her travels. She is fascinated by his white hair, which she notes that she had never seen in person before. "
"<s>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named.     Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.     The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner.     What's a Huntner?     A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her.     Any other information?     None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could.     I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing.     What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?     Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times.     Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered.     You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.     Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new.     The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed.     She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray?     The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.     Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone.  <doc-sep>   Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  <doc-sep>Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants      cousin     —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested.     Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see.     Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery.     'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway.     So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened      The Interregnum     . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.     The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on      The Interregnum     . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime.     More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an      avant-garde     form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results.     Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.  <doc-sep></s>","At fourteen years old, the inhabitants of the Ship are put through a Trial. During the trial, they are dropped off at the nearest colonized planet and then picked up a month later if they manage to survive on the planet. Each of the fourteen-year-olds are dropped off in separate locations on the planet. They are given a pick signal device so the scoutship that escorted them to the planet is able to locate them at the end of their 30-day Trial period. The purpose of the trial according to the Chairman of the Council is because a closed society needs a way to ensure the physical and mental of its populations. In addition, it helps to maintain a suitable number of individuals in the population. Those that are unable to survive their Trial are presumed to be not fit for life on the Ship.  "
"<s>I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around.     Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast.     I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side.     I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off.     When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you.     That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said.     The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him.     No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use.     The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch.     But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket.     Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it.     He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time.     He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering.     The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that.     He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed.     Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom.     Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket.     Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton.     I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him.     He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal.     Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said.     I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me.     Horst made a disgusted sound.     Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over.     I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton.     I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on.     I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me.     I felt like a fool.     Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart.     Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk.     I said calmly, You big louse.     It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing.     Brains are no good if you don't use them.   <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him.     Mia nodded.     The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.     To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about.     Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him.     Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.     It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst.     Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that—     He could say it was an accident.     No, Ri said stubbornly.     He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.     It's getting cold, Ri said.     Listen, Mia pleaded.     No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would      know     we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.      He     knows that.     Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't      want     to overthrow him!     Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.     That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were      ever     plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they      helped     him, don't yousee?     Ri whined nervously.     It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army      put     him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule.  <doc-sep></s>","Horst, along with his four companions, is a man that Mia meets on the planet Tintera. He, along with his companions, were on horses and shepherding animals in front of them. Mia describes him as a middle-aged man with a large build. Mia analyzes his face and decides that she does not want to interact with him because his face looks mean. Horst, incorrectly, assumes Mia is a boy and asks her questions. Horst asserts that Mia will ride along with the men to the town of Forton. However, Mia disagrees with that statement and Horst does not like the response. Horst begins to bring out his rifle, but Mia grabs her sonic pistol before he is able to do so. She holds them at gunpoint until they drop their weapons. After this confrontation, Horst and Mia do not see each other again until they both end up at the same campsite. At the campsite, Horst and his companions bind Mia’s arms together to prevent her from escaping them. They look through her stuff and threaten her. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort.     Will you tell us why? Tate asked.     You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow.     Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus.     Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan.     There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere.     I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course.     He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone.     Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors.     Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes.     You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we.     And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture.     We hope to win yet, the Martian said.     Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity?     The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry.     Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian.  <doc-sep></s>","The story starts with four of the species of the spectrum of human development together, talking and explaining about the possibility of mating with different species on the spectrum to Taphetta the Ribboneer. Emmer is an archeologist and he sits on one end of the spectrum. Halden, the biologist is from Earth, he is somewhat towards the middle on the spectrum. Meredith is a linguist, and she is further down the spectrum. And Kelburn, the mathematician, is at the far end of it. They explain to Taphetta about the theory of ability to mate with humans that are on planets that are close to each other. However, due to movement of planets, they are no longer close to each other. But with some accurate calculations, if all the stars were to go back two hundred thousand years, the position of those stars line up in the shape of a horse shoe. And they theorize that their original home lands on where the extension of the two ends of the horse shoe cross over. And the four explorers believe they have a chance of finding their original home. They are explaining this to Taphetta because they need him to be the pilot of this expedition. After Taphetta suggests that he does not like the air in the ship, they realize that some animals hs been eating the plants. With failing attempts to capture them, the biologist suggest that their mental and physical state might have changed due to radiation or atomic engines. Thus they set up a play for the animal to watch so that they will get into the trap. Meredith and Halden get into a fight because Meredith thinks Halden as primitive, and Halden does not like that. When he realizes that Meredith somehow knows she can’t be fertile with Kelburn, he gets so angry that he hits her nose. Then he come to realize why Meredith will not want to marry him and have children with him, even he would want superior children."
"<s>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp.     Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ...      pirate     !     Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade.     The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate.     Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.     Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness.     An eternity seemed to pass.     Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.     Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.     That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett.     The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight.     He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett.     Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was.     Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you!     Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?     Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!     Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage.     You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou....     Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.  <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.     He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.     Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.     The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true.     A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.     Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it.     The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere.     The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand....     The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett.     Which was right, in a way.     Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter.     Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.     Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.     It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl.     Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.     Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened.     But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head.     It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.  <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!     Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully.     Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction.     There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.     Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!     Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse.     His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found.     Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.     You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!     Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held.     Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.     Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.  <doc-sep></s>","Taphetta the Ribboneer was on another ship that was passing by the expedition ship. Since the pilot that was supposed to fly the expedition got very sick and needed some treatment, he was taken by the other ship, and they told the explorers that they have an experienced pilot on board. After having Taphetta on the expedition ship, they introduce themselves and explains how they are at different points on the development spectrum. However, unlike human themselves, Taphetta does not see any difference between the early and late stage of humans, they are all the same to her. Later they explain the theory of horse shoe planets, the adjacency mating principle and suggest that they are likely to find their origin planet on their trip. Taphetta is interested and asks them to take her contract. Taphetta is afraid of them holding discoveries for the benefit of one race, thus offers them his own contract. While the truth is that the explorers are not going to hold anything, no one can be sure of the institutions that support this expedition. Furthermore, Taphetta senses that something is wrong with the air, which makes them realize that there has been animals consuming the plants they grew. Despite the fact that he doesn’t want to risk bait for the pest, he is convinced. "
"<s>   BIG ANCESTOR     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic       race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it!        In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons.     Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend.     It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel—      and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others     ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more!     It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies.     That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment.       Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn.  <doc-sep>Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high.     Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins?     Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of.     A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?     Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid.     This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta.     Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is.     What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta.     We helped them, said Emmer.     And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny?  <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor?     It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from.     Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity.     Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span.     No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries.     Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years.     But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?     Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They      were     master biologists.     I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest.     He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal.     To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this:      My     terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.     Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes.      He     hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared.     That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now.  <doc-sep></s>","Meredith is a linguist who sits on the middle towards end of the spectrum; Halden is a biologist that is on the middle towards beginning of the spectrum. Meredith is wearing a short skirt which gets Firmon’s unwanted attention. She is also aware of the fact that she has been called “mistress” by the ship crews. After setting the trap for the plant eating animals, Meredith complements Halden for his primitiveness and calls their love barbaric, but Halden takes it a different way. He is indeed primitive in comparison to Meredith, but he clearly does not like the sound of it. He is of the lower level, she is a step up for him. In strong constrast to Taphetta’s belief of all humans are the same disregarding where they are on the spectrum, Meredith thinks that this spectrum weights more than the amount of love between Meredith and Halden. They seem to have known this all along. Halden never asks Meredith if she wanted to marry him, nor will Meredith say yes to that. Halden doesn’t like to be thought of the lower level human, but to his surprise, Halden later realizes that he also prefers a higher level children. "
"<s>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table.     Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment.     He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors.     I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said.     Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk.     Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.     I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls.     Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily.     Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material.     Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio.     At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.     The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis.     However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found.     The rest will also be!     Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors.     Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion,      The Dance of the Planets     .     That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:   This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past.     He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past.     Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion.     Two hundred thousand years ago, he said.     There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed.     Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate?     As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem.     And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor?     To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to      two hundred thousand years ago     !     The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations?     Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right.     Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home?     We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip.     It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions?     Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition.     Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect.     The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me?     We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability.     Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives?     Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make.     I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person.     They glanced at one another as Halden took it.     You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been.     There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed.     Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading.  <doc-sep>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments.     He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging....     We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula.     According to plan, the      Quest III     has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready.     But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way.     On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away....     Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the      Quest III     couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory.     That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other      Quests     , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation.     Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there?     Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away....     It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship.     Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing.     The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English....     ... for my purpose holds     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths     Of all the western stars, until I die.  <doc-sep></s>","The goal of the expedition is to find their original home. There are many different species on the human development spectrum, and it is assumed that they can only mate with the species that are close to them on the spectrum according to the adjacency mating principle. Following this principle, careful calculations are done on the orbits of those planets. By determining their location in space at different times, the team are able to find a specific time in the whole universe that not only makes the specific pattern of a horse shoe, but also has supporting data backed up this hypothesis. Furthermore, if two imaginary lines extend from the ends of the horse shoe, the two lines will eventually meet and cross over at a specific location in space. The team are able to narrow the crossing point down to a few cubic light-years. According to the team, this space should be the place that their original home is. If they are to find the planet that the hypothetical unknown ancestors belongs to, they will be making cultural discoveries, technological advances, and finding out where they actually come from. "
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort.     Will you tell us why? Tate asked.     You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow.     Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus.     Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan.     There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere.     I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course.     He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone.     Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors.     Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes.     You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we.     And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture.     We hope to win yet, the Martian said.     Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity?     The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry.     Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian.  <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor?     It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from.     Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity.     Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span.     No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries.     Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years.     But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?     Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They      were     master biologists.     I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest.     He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal.     To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this:      My     terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.     Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes.      He     hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared.     That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set in a space ship of an expedition with the goal of finding human’s original home. The universe has many species of human beings at different development levels, and four of them are on board of the ship. They seem to believe that there is a planet of origin, where they evolved. They assume that later, they were brought from the original planet to the planets they now live on. There was another ship that passed the expedition ship, which allow the explorers to send their pilot home since he is sick. They learn that there is a Ribboneer on that ship. The Ribboneer is a pilot and has been to some expeditions. Thus, the team want to have him on board and be the pilot of their ship. Hence, they start to explain about their theories in trying to find out about human race and their origin. The Ribboneer is interested and decides to join the team. Later, they notice that the plants are being eaten by some animals. Thus they put on a show at the hydroponics to trick the animals. Later, we follow Halden and Meredith to Halden’s cabin where they have an argument over the level of development they have and Halden punches Meredith’s nose. Then, the story ends with the two of them in Halden’s room. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.     He sat straight up, his chest heaving.     The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed      red beard     !     Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain.     The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.     And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears.     His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him.     He awoke still screaming....     A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind.     She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard?     She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You      were     looking for him, weren't you?     Who is he?     She sat on the chair beside him.     My husband, she said softly.     He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me?     We need all the good men we can get.     Where is he?     She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him.     Why aren't you with him now?     He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate?     He told her the tales he'd heard.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","A spaceship named Quest III is moving towards a color-changing star, but this time it is the Sun. The crew is excited, their journey is coming to its end and they are coming home. The captain says they have sighted Earth. Talking burst out happily, the captain's wife is anxious about nothing being the same after nine hundred years on Earth, while it was only ten for the crew in space. The course to Earth is set and the whole crew is filled with anticipation. The captain can't find how to kill time and delves into upsetting thoughts about the failure of the venture. The captain rewatches his record from the beginning of the voyage. It shows his hopes fading with every new planet proving unfit for settlement and the Earth years increasing rapidly and frighteningly. By then, the captain had an idea of going to Omega Centauri without returning to Earth, as this planet was more than forty thousand years away from Earth. The reasoning was that the captain didn't want to bring news of a failure to Earth, but eventually he decided to return no matter what. Back to reality, the captain starts thinking about his awaiting future on Earth, when a jar goes  through the ship. Very soon the captain calms down, considering a meteoroid to be the reason, but a call informs him the ship is attacked by other ships. The captain rushes up joined by his son, the whole crew is panicking. The ship is not harmed though and still landing, as there is no other place for it to go. The attack seems well-planned and the crew broadcasts an audio wave, asking the attackers who they are and introducing themselves. There is no answer and Zost, a crew member, traces no lights or urban features on Earth, even no trees or grass are detected. Suddenly, a strange voice acknowledges that the other two ships were destroyed, and Quest III will be as well if it continues towards Earth. The captain learns out soon that the voice simply tries to frighten them and is not that confident, and is told that Quest I preferred suicide to defeat and went into the Sun. The vision connection happens and the man on the other side avoids the question why, proclaiming that the Quest III's crew must die. "
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>  THE FIRST ONE     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by von Dongen     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.]       The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...?       There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship      Washington     , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness.     Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties.     He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk.     Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival.     The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before.     The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met.     He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window.     And perhaps she      had     been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door.     The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home!     Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand-      then     -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella.     Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough.     So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington.     Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive.  <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle.     Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!     Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.     Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country.     Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians—     Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj.     Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.  <doc-sep></s>","The captain is very responsible concerning his position and keeps an impassive voice and appearance in relation to all events. To his wife though he shows warmth and care, and expresses confidence in Earth's stability, he calms down his wife. Nevertheless, he also feels uncertain about the reception on Earth. Space is the captain's passion, but Earth is still his home. He is nervous about returning and alone with himself doesn't know how to distract. He becomes nostalgic rewatching the records from the beginning of the voyage and feels empty and old. He used to be full of excitement and energy about the mission, but it failed, and at some point he didn't even want to return with the news of failure after centuries, when everything changed. Nevertheless, the decision was made and there is no other choice now. The trip has changed the captain and now he feels aged and tired. He wants to retire and live with his family on Earth, he becomes nostalgic of its forests and green places, but not sure he wants it either. "
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  <doc-sep>I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but—     He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far.     Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding.     Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she      knew     but she didn't really      understand     .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me.  <doc-sep></s>","All the people are extremely excited to return, they keep talking and buzzing about it. Many are nervous about the centuries that have passed and about what they will find upon return. Lesra, the captain's wife, feels anxious, for a while she was even afraid the Earth won't be there. She is scared of how the Earth will look like now and tears fill her eyes. The navigator is also nervous about the reception they will get. When the ship is attacked, everyone is confused and scared, the mass panic starts. The captain has to maintain coolness and calm everyone down, but he is also anxious about the return. Moreover, he hates returning with failure and only does it because the ship ran out of fuel. So, the whole ship anticipates the return and misses home, but due to the long time far away, everyone is afraid of what awaits them.  "
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, andwhen Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned tothe village he had visited the day before. However, there were otherseal-people here.     And they were almost human!     The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—thatwas little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviouslygreater intelligence.     This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked.Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when heslipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them.Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactlyalike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, thesehad no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meethim, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.     Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutesof curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.     One was a female.     They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, heunderstood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. Hetried saying tent and wire and tarp as he handled each object,but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amusedhimself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He wasfairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough tocarry on a limited conversation.     The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed untilKaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reachedthe river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.  <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.     He sat straight up, his chest heaving.     The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed      red beard     !     Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain.     The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.     And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears.     His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him.     He awoke still screaming....     A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind.     She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard?     She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You      were     looking for him, weren't you?     Who is he?     She sat on the chair beside him.     My husband, she said softly.     He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me?     We need all the good men we can get.     Where is he?     She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him.     Why aren't you with him now?     He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate?     He told her the tales he'd heard.  <doc-sep></s>","A few ships were sent to space as a part of the mission. Quest III was one of them, but there also were Quest I and II. The purpose was for the ships to find a sun similar to the Sun somewhere in space, and a planet to live on, in case Earth will become unfit. This mission was of extreme importance for the whole of humanity and the crew felt honored and ready to sacrifice all they were leaving on Earth. Nevertheless, they kept hoping to return as fast as possible, but every sun was unfit. The amount of fuel for no more than one thousand Earth years was loaded before departure and the fairest point to reach was chosen. All three ships went different ways, and were cut from any communication. Nevertheless, Quest III was unable to find any fitting planet and had to return or stay in a place located more than forty thousand Earth years away. The captain decided to return, though the failure upset him. "
"<s>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments.     He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging....     We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula.     According to plan, the      Quest III     has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready.     But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way.     On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away....     Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the      Quest III     couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory.     That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other      Quests     , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation.     Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there?     Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away....     It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship.     Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing.     The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English....     ... for my purpose holds     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths     Of all the western stars, until I die.  <doc-sep>He awoke with a start and a cry of alarm ran through him as he thoughtthat perhaps he might still be in the      Mary Lou     . The warm, smiling faceof a man quickly reassured him.     I'll call the captain, the space man said. He said to let him knowwhen you came to.     Willard could only nod in weak and grateful acceptance. It was true! Hepressed his head back against the bed's pillows. How soft! How warm! Heyawned and stretched his arms as a thrill of happiness shot through hisentire body.     He would see Earth again! That single thought ran over and over in hismind without stopping. He would see Earth again! Perhaps not this yearand perhaps not the next—for the ship might be on some extra-Plutonianexpedition. But even if it would take years before it returned to homebase Willard knew that those years would fly quickly if Earth was atthe end of the trail.     Though he had aged, he still had many years before him. And thoseyears, he vowed, would be spent on Earth and nowhere else.     The captain, a pleasant old fellow, came into the room as Willard stoodup and tried to walk. The gravity here was a bit different from that ofhis ship, but he would manage.     How do you feel, Space Man Willard?     Oh, you know me? Willard looked at him in surprise, and then smiled,Of course, you looked through the log book of the      Mary Lou     .     The captain nodded and Willard noticed with surprise that he was a veryold man.     You don't know how much I suffered there, Willard said slowly,measuring each word. Years in space—all alone! It's a horrible thing!     Yes? the old captain said.     Many times I thought I would go completely mad. It was only thethought and hope that some day, somehow, an Earth-ship would find meand help me get back to Earth. If it was not for that, I would havedied. I could think of nothing but of Earth, of blue green water, ofvast open spaces and the good brown earth. How beautiful it must benow!     A note of sadness, matched only by that of Willard's, entered thecaptain's eyes.     I want to walk on Earth just once—then I can die.     Willard stopped. A happy dreamy smile touched his lips.     When will we go to Earth? he asked.     The Captain did not answer. Willard waited and a strange memory tuggedat him.     You don't know, the Captain said. It was not a question or astatement. The Captain found it hard to say it. His lips moved slowly.     Willard stepped back and before the Captain told him,      he knew     .     Matter is relative, he said, the existent under one condition isnon-existent under another. The real here is the non-real there. Allthings that wander alone in space are gradually drained of their massand energy until nothing is left but mere shells. That is what happenedto the      Mary Lou     . Your ship was real when we passed by twenty yearsago. It is now like ours, a vague outline in space. We cannot feelthe change ourselves, for change is relative. That is why we becamemore and more solid to you, as you became more and more faint to anyEarth-ship that might have passed. We are real—to ourselves. But tosome ship from Earth which has not been in space for more than fifteenyears—to that ship, to all intents and purposes, we do not exist.     Then this ship, Willard said, stunned, you and I and everything onit...     ... are doomed, the Captain said. We cannot go to Earth for thesimple reason that we would go      through     it!     The vision of Earth and green trees faded. He would never see Earthagain. He would never feel the crunch of ground under feet as hewalked. Never would listen to the voices of friends and the songs ofbirds. Never. Never. Never....     Then this is the Ghost Ship and we are the Ghosts!     Yes.   <doc-sep>On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm.     Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her.     Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened.     Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap.     One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there!     This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid?     Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going.     But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war.     Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case.     There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament.     They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place.     Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race.  <doc-sep></s>","The whole crew was getting homesick and excited about returning, even the captain became nostalgic of the forests and green areas. On the other hand, all the people the crew knew had died a long time ago, and there was some frightening uncertainty about what awaited them upon return. Therefore, the decision was hard to make. Even more difficult it was for the captain as he didn't want to return with the news of failure. Soon, it turns out that the return was a dangerous choice and the crew is not welcome. The ship is attacked and the enemy threatens to destroy the ship, which can't turn away as it is out of fuel. Therefore, this decision put the whole crew in danger instead of fulfilling their hopes for warm welcome and excitement to come home. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.     Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the      Moss Rock     , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years!     You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right.     What—? Magnan started.     As you wish, Retief, said Whonk.     The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.     That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong....     There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.     Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci.     Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression.     Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand!     I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price.     I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back—     Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive.     The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless.     That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why.     Whonk came toward the      Moss Rock     dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk.     Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear.  <doc-sep>   The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  <doc-sep></s>","Bucky Shannon, a space circus owner, and his business manager, Jig Bentley, have a dispute over the business' financial hardships. Suddenly, a little man interferes. Mistaking him for a bill-collector, Bucky starts a fight, when Jig notices money in the man's hands. Simon Beamish, the little man, is planning to invest in the circus and make its tour to other towns. He agrees to pay much more than the real cost is, Bucky and Jig suspect some kind of a game there, but they need money. The two go to their circus and are finally able to pay the performers. After having some fun all together, the two go to see Gertrude, a huge cansin, the main attraction, who was earlier reported to be unhappy. Upon entry, Jig feels uneasy, frightened and sorry for Gertrude, who is in desperate need of a mate. The sorrow of this creature makes the whole team sad and uneasy, full of pity, and no one could help, even Gow who saved her and is the closest to her. Exiting her tank, Jig has to carry Bucky, who is crying at the view and falling asleep at the same time. On their way, the two face the Vapor snakes let out by someone, they fall, and the snakes cover their bodies. Gow saves the two and they are burnt but alive, trying to find out who let the snakes out to hurt them and suspecting Beamish. Then the whole gang goes to Venus to meet Beamish, and there is a feeling of discontent coming from the gang and mixed with Gertrude's screams all the way. Further, the Nahali woman from the gang claims to smell death and trouble. Then they meet Sam, a hunter selling them animals until three seasons ago, and now he is crying and scared. Turns out, he has found the only male cansin and wants to take it back to prevent trouble, though he is afraid of people wanting to take the cansin from him. Suddenly, Jig discovers Beamish listening to the conversation and Sam dies. Jig then notices the suspicious silence and too much of a crowd in the bar and recognizes the man who gave Sam a cigarette a while ago. "
"<s>   The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden....     Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome.     That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled.     I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a      cansin     . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference.     They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The      cansins     were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils.     I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big.     I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire.     The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began.     Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one.     Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male      cansin     . There may not even be any.     Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain....     Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts.     He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude.     I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time....     He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child.     This time, he said, I ain't sure.     Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'.     He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed.     You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love....     Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck.     We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller.     Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire.     I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake!     I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream.     I thought,       Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us!      I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me.     One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder.     The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes.     Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!     Then I went out.      II     Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed      thak     -weed. It smelt.     You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell.     He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he?     Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!     I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick.     Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said:     Beamish is here with his lawyer.     I picked up my shirt. Right with you.     Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door.     Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose.     I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head.     Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?     Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped.     One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?     I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors.     Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I....     I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!     We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens.     Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way.     Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute.     Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look.     I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned.     A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!     I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship.     While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming.  <doc-sep>It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly.     It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth.     Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys.     They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door.     I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily.     Now? he said.     Now, I said.     We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood.     The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings.     Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them.     I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed.     Let's go see Gertrude.     I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged.     Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye.     You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'....     The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends?     It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units.     Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars.     Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall.     It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong.  <doc-sep></s>","Bucky, the owner, is of a rather idealistic opinion of the circus. He considers it great and he loves the participants as they are loyal and good. Jig is rather realistic, he knows the circus is broken and lousy, with Gertrude, the huge cansin, being the only worthy creature, though even she is old. Jig is also not that fond of many creatures, he sees them as ugly, some scary, some absurd. The state of Gertrude made Bucky cry, and soon he confessed that he actually knows that the circus is not great, but he loves it no matter what. Jig tried to be practical and asked Gow to snap Gertrude out of this state for the good of the circus. Nevertheless, even Jig was touched by the creature's appearance and gaze full of grief, her screams made him tremble. The Nahali woman, claiming to smell death, made Jig feel anxious and scared. Throughout the story Jig keeps feeling uneasy around the creatures and tries to avoid them, limiting the interactions to business. Bucky, at the same time, sympathizes with them and tries to get closer. "
"<s>   The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden....     Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome.     That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled.     I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a      cansin     . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference.     They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The      cansins     were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils.     I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big.     I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire.     The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began.     Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one.     Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male      cansin     . There may not even be any.     Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain....     Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts.     He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude.     I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time....     He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child.     This time, he said, I ain't sure.     Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'.     He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed.     You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love....     Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck.     We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller.     Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire.     I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake!     I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream.     I thought,       Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us!      I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me.     One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder.     The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes.     Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!     Then I went out.      II     Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed      thak     -weed. It smelt.     You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell.     He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he?     Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!     I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick.     Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said:     Beamish is here with his lawyer.     I picked up my shirt. Right with you.     Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door.     Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose.     I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head.     Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?     Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped.     One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?     I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors.     Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I....     I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!     We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens.     Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way.     Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute.     Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look.     I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned.     A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!     I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship.     While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming.  <doc-sep>She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin.     I handed her the doctor's manuscript.     Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself.     Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror.     Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully.     I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else.     I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her.     She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you.     It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you?     She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police.     I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want?     Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel?     I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee.     It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar.     Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee.     He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that      did not exist     .  <doc-sep></s>","Jig argues with Bucky, the owner of the circus, whose director is the former. Jig is drunk and is careless enough to insult the circus. He almost gets beaten when a stranger interferes. Jig feels pity towards his savior at first, but then he sees a sum of money in the man’s hands. Jig stops Bucky and the three of them begin to discuss business. Jig tries to show off the circus and asks for more money than it’s worth. He is suspicious of the man, but they make a deal. Then, Jig goes together with Bucky to pay the members of the gang and they have fun. After that, the two friends go to check on Gertrude, the main attraction. The creature’s depressing appearance makes Jig feel uneasy and pitiful, he has to carry Bucky, who is crying and falling asleep, away from the cage. Then both are attacked by Vapor snakes and Jig appears a hero by covering Bucky. He finds himself bitten all over and looking ridiculous, but at least alive. He encounters Bucky and they try to learn who wanted to kill them both. Then they go to Venus to meet Beamish, Jig feels the gang’s unhappiness with the travel, and he feels uneasy himself. The Nahali woman and her death predictions make him even more scared. Then they meet Sam who used to hunt animals for their circus, his terrible appearance makes Jig feel sick. Then together with Bucky, he tries to help the hunter by asking questions in the nearby bar. Jig feels even more scared and sick when Sam starts choking and his mouth gets blue. Jig wants to rush for a doctor, but finds Beamish listening behind the curtain. When Sam dies, Jig starts understanding and suspecting something, he talks to the bartender and suddenly recognizes the man who gave a cigarette to Sam."
"<s>   The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden....     Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome.     That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled.     I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a      cansin     . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference.     They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The      cansins     were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils.     I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big.     I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire.     The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began.     Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one.     Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male      cansin     . There may not even be any.     Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain....     Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts.     He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude.     I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time....     He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child.     This time, he said, I ain't sure.     Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'.     He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed.     You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love....     Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck.     We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller.     Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire.     I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake!     I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream.     I thought,       Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us!      I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me.     One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder.     The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes.     Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!     Then I went out.      II     Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed      thak     -weed. It smelt.     You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell.     He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he?     Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!     I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick.     Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said:     Beamish is here with his lawyer.     I picked up my shirt. Right with you.     Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door.     Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose.     I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head.     Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?     Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped.     One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?     I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors.     Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I....     I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!     We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens.     Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way.     Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute.     Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look.     I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned.     A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!     I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship.     While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming.  <doc-sep>Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's.     He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out.     The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled.     I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it....     He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to....     Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where?     Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires.     Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing.     Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it?     Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered,           Cansin     . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back.     Where is it, Sam?     I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table.     Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew.     Heart? said Beamish finally.     Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam.     I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap.     Keep this guy here till I get back, I said.     Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar.     I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots.     Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else.     The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy.     I leaned on the bar.       Lhak     , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually.     That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with?           Selak     , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know.     I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then.  <doc-sep></s>","The first encounter between Beamish and the two occurred when Jig and Bucky were at the point of a fight. Beamish prevented them from this unnecessary action, and soon he saved the circus. The circus was broke, the performers were discontent with not getting their bills, the construction was loose, etc. There would be no tour and existence of the circus overall without this encounter. Being able to pay the gang, Jig and Bucky could show up without being afraid or ashamed to show up in their circus and keep doing business. This encounter was also somehow connected with the attempt to kill the two by letting the vapor snakes out. The trip to Venus in the end was also caused by this encounter, as it was the place where Beamish awaited for his partners and the gang. Therefore, he was somehow connected with them meeting Sam, a hunter supplying animals for the circus, and his eventual weird death. Beamish listening to their dialogue and overall investing in a broke circus creates a suspicion of his actions having some hidden reason. Together with the unhappiness of the gang and one creature smelling death, Beamish's unclear intentions seem scheming and threatening, adding to the intrigue of the whole story. "
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.     Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the      Moss Rock     , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years!     You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right.     What—? Magnan started.     As you wish, Retief, said Whonk.     The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.     That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong....     There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.     Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci.     Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression.     Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand!     I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price.     I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back—     Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive.     The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless.     That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why.     Whonk came toward the      Moss Rock     dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk.     Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear.  <doc-sep>   The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins in the middle of some bar or club with a girl playing piano and drinks being served. When Beamish joined them, the three moved to a booth - a quieter place there. After the conversation, Jig and Bucky go to circus. At first, they meet the whole gang, coming through the main entrance. Then they move to the tank of a huge special creature, Gertrude, which is located a bit afar. On the way back home, outside the tank, the two were attacked by snakes. They woke up in different rooms, taken care of by Kanza the Martian croaker after being bitten by snakes and brought there by Gow, a member of the circus gang. Very soon they all together with the gang set off to Venus on a space ship to meet Beamish. On Venus the gang walked towards a local bar and the story ends there. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   SPACEMAN ON A SPREE     BY MACK REYNOLDS     Illustrated by Nodel     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      What's more important—Man's conquest     of space, or one spaceman's life?      I     They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.     They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all.     In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.     The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.     He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.     No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.     They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.  <doc-sep>II     Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.     When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.     Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed.     Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.     He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need?     It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.     In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient.     The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held.     All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market.     Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for.     He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.     Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.     Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him.     Si was going to do it differently this time.     Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best.  <doc-sep></s>","Seymour Pond has just retired from his career as the last astronaut from the Ultrawelfare State at the age of thirty. At his going away party he is given a watch, and academics like Lifting Gubelin and Dr Hans Girarad-Perregaux speak on his behalf. Si has decided to take the money he has saved up from his time working, which most people in the Ultrawelfare state don't, and live a simple comfortable life. He intends to never work again, after his six space flights. The currency used in the state was universal, controlled by a personal credit card. Because most jobs were automated, few people had to work, so most people lived off of a set welfare, and those selected to work were given a little extra compensation. Si was one of these people. Gubelin and Perregaux are both horrified by the fact that Pond has decided to take an early retirement. He was their only pilot for their space program, and if they were to get another, it would take at least a year of training. Without a pilot, they are worried that their funding will be cut, and the space program will be shut down. They scheme together as to how to get Pond back in the space program. They think that the only way to get him back would be to make sure he was left without any money, and therefore would have no choice but to return to his former position. Si is planning a big night out. He has always gone and celebrated when there was a cause, and tonight, he was planning to spend at least half of all the money in his account. He gets dressed in his retirement rank suit to go out, checks his balance, and then takes his vacuum tube to New york city. Before he leaves, he books a room at a swanky hotel for the rich and famous, and after a few moments, his car transports him to his room. There is an amazing view of the city, and from his room, gets ready to go to the bar. At the bar he orders a drink, before noticing a beautiful woman beside him. They get to talking and before long, she tells him she recognises him, telling him about how moved she found his whole retirement ceremony. Making it very clear she wasn't happy he was retiring. He asks why she has an interest in space, to which she replies that she always has. He begins to explain the aspects of space flight, when the right side of his mouth begins to tick, and he knocks his drink back. "
"<s>II     Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.     When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.     Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed.     Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.     He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need?     It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.     In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient.     The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held.     All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market.     Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for.     He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.     Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.     Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him.     Si was going to do it differently this time.     Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best.  <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.     That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State.     Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed.     Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has.     That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny.     His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't.     At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did?     Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes.     Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips?     But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for....  <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles.     Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please.     In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead.     One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.     He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city.     He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown.     He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.     Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud.     The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed.     Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room.     A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes.     Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.     He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.     He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress.     He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed.     For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.     He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen.     He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room.     The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room.  <doc-sep></s>","The Ultrawelfare State is a distant future society, based upon the main ideas of communism. Every person in the state is guaranteed shares in the society, which translates to money, food, clothes, housing, medical care and education. The money of the nation is doled out by the economic planning board, who determine how the communal wealth is spent. Everyone is given a universal credit card, which only they can access, and they can check their balances on the teevee phones. The way in which people are selected to work in the state is very interesting. In this society, most jobs are automated, so very few people are unfortunate enough to have to work. People are selected for different jobs based on their physical and mental qualifications. People who don't work have their assigned shares to live off of, and those that are selected to work are given a little extra as compensation. When the society was first formed, they tried to give everyone work, but they realised that it was no good to have people working for two hours, two days a week, so they created the draft lottery. Most people live in small apartments, and the fortunate living Si, are able to afford vacuum tubes, which can take you anywhere in an instant. It is only the swankiest of places that have real people working in them. All payment is automated, and different settings of rooms can be changed in an instant in fancy hotels. "
"<s>   SPACEMAN ON A SPREE     BY MACK REYNOLDS     Illustrated by Nodel     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      What's more important—Man's conquest     of space, or one spaceman's life?      I     They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.     They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all.     In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.     The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.     He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.     No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.     They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.  <doc-sep>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman.     He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond.     His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in      our     minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration.     So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently.     So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!     Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means?     Gubelin blinked at him.     The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life?     Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it?     You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go.     Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again.     He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah,      con     you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?     The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap.  <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.     That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State.     Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed.     Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has.     That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny.     His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't.     At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did?     Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes.     Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips?     But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for....  <doc-sep></s>","Gubelin and Perregaux know that they must get Pond back into their program, if they are going to save it from their funding being cut.  Perregaux tells Gubelin about a theory, where a sailor, who has been out at sea for many months, will always blow his hard earned money on one night out the minute he's back in town, no matter how much he wanted to save it. This is because of the loneliness of the sailor, and their need to make up for all the experiences that he has missed out on while he was at sea. The sailor will wake up the next morning, having spent all his money, without a cent to his name. Then, he will have to go back out to sea, to make back the money he has lost, so the cycle continues. Perregaux believes that Pond is this sailor, and if only they could set a trap for him, in which it would cause him to lose all his money in one night, he would have to go back to work for them. They plant Natalie Paskov, a beautiful woman at the bar where Pond goes. She interacts with him as if he's famous, stroking his ego. She then goes on to show her disdain for the idea that he has retired, and he orders them drinks. And so the night begins, with Pond starting to get drunk, and lose all his money to Natalie. "
"<s>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman.     He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond.     His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in      our     minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration.     So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently.     So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!     Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means?     Gubelin blinked at him.     The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life?     Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it?     You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go.     Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again.     He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah,      con     you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?     The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap.  <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar.     There was actually a bartender.     Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour.     Yes, sir.     The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.     Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present.     To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities.     He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed.           Zo-ro-as-ter     , he breathed.     She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but      every     pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.     His stare couldn't be ignored.     She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive.     There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink.     Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me?     Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out.     The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir....     The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin?     Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure.     Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?     Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run.     She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou.     Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si.     She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that.     Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour.     I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him.     Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it.           Academician     Gubelin? she said. You just call him      Doc     ?     Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried?  <doc-sep>   SPACEMAN ON A SPREE     BY MACK REYNOLDS     Illustrated by Nodel     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      What's more important—Man's conquest     of space, or one spaceman's life?      I     They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.     They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all.     In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.     The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.     He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.     No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.     They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.  <doc-sep></s>","Ponds was a space pilot for the department of space exploration. he had completed six space runs to the Moon, Mars, Venus, and Jupiter. He hated every minute of it. Initially, he was drafted into the workforce reserves. He was soon. selected for the job based on his physical attributes and mental qualifications. He had to go through rigorous training once he was selected. This training took several years. After this he was put into the field. He was crammed in a small little space cafard for what seemed like endless amounts of time. "
"<s>   SPACEMAN ON A SPREE     BY MACK REYNOLDS     Illustrated by Nodel     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      What's more important—Man's conquest     of space, or one spaceman's life?      I     They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.     They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all.     In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.     The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.     He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.     No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.     They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.  <doc-sep>II     Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.     When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.     Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed.     Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.     He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need?     It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.     In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient.     The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held.     All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market.     Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for.     He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.     Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.     Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him.     Si was going to do it differently this time.     Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best.  <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles.     Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please.     In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead.     One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.     He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city.     He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown.     He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.     Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud.     The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed.     Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room.     A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes.     Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.     He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.     He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress.     He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed.     For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.     He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen.     He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room.     The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room.  <doc-sep></s>","Pond seems to be obsessed with money. At his retirement, he is given a gold watch. He thinks to himself how much better it would have been if they had simply given him money instead. He vows to live a simple, comfortable life, keeping an eye on his money so it will last him for the rest of his days. He is very proud of the fact that he can afford a luxury like his vacuum tube. Whenever something goes well in Pond's life, he loves to splurge on a night out. He ends up spending enormous amounts of money on things that he sometimes deems as sub-par for a man of his status. On this one fateful night, he decides that he deserves the best of everything. He is obsessed with the idea of wealth and fame, and checks himself into the nicest hotel he can think of in New York City, partially because he presumes he might see some celebrities there. He checks the balance on his credit card often, and when he goes down to the hotel bar, he has to restrain himself from checking how much a single drink costs. He looks around for signs of famous people, but is disappointed when he sees none. He gives into the flattery of Natalie when she gushes over him, as if he were famous, believing her obvious depciet, and buying her a drink. Fame and money are everything to Pond. "
"<s>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't.     There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He      was     proud of it. It was      right     that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job.     If he had happened to be born a fig—a      clerk     , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.     Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how      comfortable     it must be to be a wipe—a      laborer     .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf.     Of course, he wouldn't      really     want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't      meant     to be—     Evening, Cap'n.     He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.     Evening, Conan, he said.     Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place.     So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?      II     Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment.     And punishment is what you get.     Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock.     Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling.     Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other.     The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside.     The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.     The outside guard shrugged.     Detail,      halt     ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards.     The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up.     Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready.     Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed.     Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses.     The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves.     However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  <doc-sep></s>","Liam O’Leary is the captain of the guards at the Estates-General Correctional Institution (also known as the Jug). He starts off seeing a prisoner called Sue-Ann Bradley, who is having problems with a block guard named Sandro. She explains to him that Mathias, another prisoner, did not give her proper instructions and called the guards on her after ten minutes. O’Leary gives Sue-Ann a warning, but Sandro informs him that she has already received a similar warning the day before. He changes his mind and sends her to three days in Block O. O’Leary then begins to think about his job and how it is a good civil-service job. He then thinks about the figs (clerks) and how they are still important members of society even if there should not regularly be a cross between the barriers of the two classes. Sue-Ann, on the other hand, is taken to the Block O disciplinary block. The leading citizens, Flock, and Sauer begin shrieking at her as soon as she arrives. The guards exchange some words regarding the new additions to the block, and Sue-Ann walks through the gate to reach her cell. The two of them begin screaming and howling again. The guards are annoyed, and Sue-Ann starts to weep for real. Meanwhile, O’Leary informs Warden Godfrey Schluckebier of the upcoming trouble he senses, but the warden brushes his concerns as nothing dangerous. The warden reminds O’Leary that they each have their jobs to worry about. Suddenly, the warden gets a phone call, and he realizes that the call is made from Cell Block O by Flock. The events preceding this call cut back to Sue-Ann, who is still in her cell when Flock initially screams in agony. The guard issues a ten-minute rest period, and the tangler fields are turned off. While the inmates are getting up, the guard notices that Flock is still doubled over in pain due to his cramps. He unties the prisoner, but he sees a strange smell that is reminiscent of scorched meat. To his surprise, Flock threatens him with a hidden handmade shiv. Sauer and Flock take the guards hostage, and they threaten the warden to send a medic down for first aid for Flock. The warden then requests to speak to the governor, which triggers a huge effect on various events. Jets, rockets, and helicopters are sent to contain the possible breakout. There is also the possibility of riots starting. Everybody is fearful of what will happen once the inmates break out. However, even with this fearful anticipation from the outside world, the breakout does not seem to happen. "
"<s>Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf.     Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock!     What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell.     We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock!     Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell!     The howling started all over again.     The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while?     Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head.     You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off!     Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss?     Shut      up     ! yelled the inside guard.     Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even      human     , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals!     Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was      good     thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem—     But did they have to scream so?     The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless!     It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong.      III     I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden.     Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life.     Trouble?      What     trouble?     O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard.     The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for.     You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things.     O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't      smell     right?     For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't—     The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat.     He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured.     O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously.       Everybody's     job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to      pass     .     O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him?     Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier.       You     know youdon't want to worry about      my     end of running the prison. And      I     don'twant to worry about      yours     . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha.  <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs.     Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last.     But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—     It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time.     He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect.     Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing.     His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably.     That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge.     Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did      what     ?You're going to WHAT?     He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer.     O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake.     And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers.     The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O.     Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves.     His name was Flock.     He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man.     The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten!     Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment.     Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it.  <doc-sep>   My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  <doc-sep></s>","The conversation between Liam O'Leary and Warden Godfrey Schluckebier reveals that their society heavily relies on specialization to thrive. It is initially said that the direction of evolution is towards specialization, and this also includes mankind. However, humans can create whatever environment they want to specialize in. The warden tells O'Leary that he should not involve himself in the warden's affairs and that he had his own job to do too. He emphasizes that everybody's jobs are important, but it is even more essential to stick to one's own and not pass on another person's occupation. Although O'Leary is upset at how the warden ignores his warnings, Schluckebier reminds him that 'specialization is the goal for civilization,' which means he does not want to worry about O'Leary's job nor should O'Leary worry about his. This goal also reveals how extreme the belief that a specialized society is one of a higher degree. Letting any specialization mix will only result in half-specialists, who fall in the same category as people who cannot specialize and ultimately serve no purpose to the future of humanity. "
"<s>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't.     There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He      was     proud of it. It was      right     that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job.     If he had happened to be born a fig—a      clerk     , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.     Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how      comfortable     it must be to be a wipe—a      laborer     .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf.     Of course, he wouldn't      really     want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't      meant     to be—     Evening, Cap'n.     He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.     Evening, Conan, he said.     Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place.     So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?      II     Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment.     And punishment is what you get.     Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock.     Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling.     Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other.     The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside.     The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.     The outside guard shrugged.     Detail,      halt     ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards.     The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up.     Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready.     Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed.     Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses.     The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves.     However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch.  <doc-sep>   My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs.     Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last.     But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—     It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time.     He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect.     Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing.     His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably.     That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge.     Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did      what     ?You're going to WHAT?     He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer.     O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake.     And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers.     The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O.     Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves.     His name was Flock.     He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man.     The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten!     Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment.     Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it.  <doc-sep></s>","Sue-Ann Bradley is also known as Detainee No. WFA-656R at the Estates-General Correctional Institution. She is a recent prisoner and has not been in prison for as long as many other inmates. Her parents both work in Civil Service. She has an excellent educational background and basically whatever a girl could want. However, she chooses to abandon all of that when she lets herself get tangled in dirty business that leads to her arrest. The main reason for her arrest is for conspiracy to violate the Categoried Class laws. She is also described to be a figger-lover because of her actions. Sue-Ann comes off as defiant and courageous when she first steps forward to confront Sandro and O’Leary to explain her side regarding the offense that Mathias reports her for doing. Inside Block O, she tries to walk bravely across the tanglefoot electronic fields only to fall on her face. Even though Sue-Ann is grateful to the guard for letting her attend to her affairs, she does make an effort to ignore him proudly. Despite this brave exterior that Sue-Ann exhibits, she does have moments of weakness. She begins to weep sincerely once the howling and screaming get worse. Although she initially refuses to let the guards hear her, she is eventually driven crazy by the senseless yelling and begins to weep freely. "
"<s>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't.     There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He      was     proud of it. It was      right     that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job.     If he had happened to be born a fig—a      clerk     , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.     Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how      comfortable     it must be to be a wipe—a      laborer     .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf.     Of course, he wouldn't      really     want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't      meant     to be—     Evening, Cap'n.     He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.     Evening, Conan, he said.     Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place.     So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?      II     Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment.     And punishment is what you get.     Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock.     Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling.     Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other.     The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside.     The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.     The outside guard shrugged.     Detail,      halt     ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards.     The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up.     Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready.     Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed.     Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses.     The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves.     However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch.  <doc-sep>   My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  <doc-sep>I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever?     Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image.     As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me?     Coming with you? I repeated. Where?     The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes....     Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible!   <doc-sep></s>","The main setting of the story is inside of a prison. The cells need to be mopped out, and there is also a mess hall. There is also a water fountain that is marked as “Civil Service” that O’Leary drinks out of. Outside, the prison also has a cobblestone yard that the spray machines and sweeperdozers constantly clean. Some prisoners, however, still clean as a means of keeping themselves busy. Apart from the courtyard, there is a car pool inside the prison gates too. The Block O portion of the prison, also known as Greensleeves, has cells with green straitjackets for the prisoners to wear and steel-slat beds. Prisoners must take steel steps up to the block and walk through a gate. The most impressive feature of Block O is the tanglefoot electronic fields that can be turned on by a switch. Prisoners are unable to move against the electronic drag of the field, which makes them essentially harmless. There is a telephone in Block O as well, that one can use to call the warden. "
"<s>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't.     There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He      was     proud of it. It was      right     that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job.     If he had happened to be born a fig—a      clerk     , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.     Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how      comfortable     it must be to be a wipe—a      laborer     .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf.     Of course, he wouldn't      really     want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't      meant     to be—     Evening, Cap'n.     He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.     Evening, Conan, he said.     Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place.     So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?      II     Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment.     And punishment is what you get.     Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock.     Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling.     Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other.     The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside.     The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.     The outside guard shrugged.     Detail,      halt     ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards.     The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up.     Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready.     Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed.     Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses.     The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves.     However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch.  <doc-sep>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet.     Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance.     The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live      quite     like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken.     Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove.     Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over.     The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I—     Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching.     It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time.     Every time but this.     For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close.     The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked.     All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain.     But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours.     No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid.       All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear?     He was nearly fainting with the pain.     But he hadn't let go.     He didn't let go. And he didn't stop.      IV     It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards.     Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear?     And he snapped the connection.     O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!     The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast.       Riot!       The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots.     It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole.     It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real.     It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug.     Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved.     A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison.     For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together.  <doc-sep>   My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  <doc-sep></s>","To the outside world, the Jug is a symbol of the lack of organization and control in the specialist society. Unlike normal street brawls or bar-room fights within the individual classes, the civilians see the Jug as where all classes end up together. This fact is extremely dangerous, because it goes against the values and goals of a higher civilization that the specialization society tries so hard to maintain. While most of the bonds that people form with one another are in their specialization classes, people from the Jug do not have to uphold this same obligation. There is also fear that once these criminals break out of the Jug, the neatly organized class order will become disrupted, and a riot larger than any prison can handle will occur amongst the people in the outside world. In the story, many already begin to prepare for the riots that will inevitably happen when the criminals break out of the Jug. "
"<s>   CALL HIM NEMESIS     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on     your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,     for that matter, so do the cops!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup.     There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers.     The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.     The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney.     It was just like the movies.     The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel.     The man by the door said, Hurry up.     The man with the satchel said, One more drawer.     The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on.     That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door.  <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively.     The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no!     Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand.     Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile.     Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer.     Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda?     The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy?     Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much.     Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again.     There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up.     I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call.     Yes, Mummy.  <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  <doc-sep></s>","The story opens up on a bank robbery. Three men, wearing identical outfits and masks, walk in and threaten the citizens in the bank, raising a weapon. As the men are taking money from behind the counter, a woman, Miss English, makes a run for the door. She is shot at but missed, caught by one of the men at the door, and another citizen, Mr. Anderson, manages to escape and call for help. The men flee the bank and hop into a stolen car, just missing the incoming police. As the men get away, the car suddenly malfunctions and crashes into another car, and they are eventually caught by the police. Detective Stevenson discusses the incident with Detective Pauling, and he is perplexed by how the tires of the stolen car seemed to melt instantly, and how the words The Scorpion were branded into the car. The owner of the stolen car, John Hastings, arrives, and he confirms that the words were not on the car before it was stolen. Two days later, the Daily News receives a crank letter, addressed from The Scorpion and explaining that he fights crime, threatening criminals. The letter was not published. About a month after the robbery, another incident occurs in Brooklyn, where Jerome Higgins murders his wife and injures his sister after spending days in his bedroom. Police and cameramen arrive at his home, where a standoff occurs for an hour before Higgins suddenly throws his rifle and runs outside, his hands burned severely. Stevenson finds the rifle and sees The Scorpion burned into the side of it. Stevenson goes to Captain Hanks, questioning the similarities between the two events, and Hanks dismisses his conspiracies. The Daily Mail receives another letter, but still does not publish it. On Halloween, two gangs, the Challengers and the Scarlet Raiders, plan a rumble over territory. Judy Canzanetti is a lookout for the Scarlet Raiders, and she is guarding the street when a group of children approach her. Judy warns them to leave, but one of the children goes around her and runs down the street. Suddenly, the police arrive, and Judy warns the gang, but then sees them jumping around and throwing their weapons and jackets. Again, the words The Scorpion are found on the jackets of both gangs. Stevenson brings this up to Hanks again, but he denies it and tells him to stop bringing the theory up."
"<s>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened.     That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone.     You left the keys in it?     Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?     The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him.     Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow.     Yes, sir. In here.     Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires?     Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup.     Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets?     Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman.     Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of      kids     had stolen the car.     It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup.     Then why did they do      that     ?     Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen?     Of course not!     Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that?     I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that.     Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully....     That was on Wednesday.     The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the      Daily News     brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.     The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:     Dear Mr. Editor:     The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper.      II     The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk.     It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.     Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.     As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.     Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep?     At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder.     Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards.  <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.     The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded.     I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'.     He says he put that on there himself, said the captain.     Stevenson shook his head. His      lawyer     says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.     He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove?     I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?     They were defective, said Hanks promptly.     All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk?     How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do      they     say?     They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere.     The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove?     I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.     What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me?     All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see.     And all      I     know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so.     And what made it so hot?     Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou      think     made it hot?     All of a sudden?     He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.     How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately.     How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?     But there's no explanation— started Stevenson.     What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just      gave     you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember?     I remember, said Stevenson.     Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson....     The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the      Daily News     :     Dear Mr. Editor,     You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten.      III     Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD.     The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war.     The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances.     The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through.     Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.     Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited.     At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started.     At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson.     They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off.     One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us?     Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way.     The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask.     Who cares? You go around the other way.  <doc-sep>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again.     I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper?     So what?     Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?     Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?     Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers.     So they changed their name, said Hanks.     Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?     Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over.     It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight.     A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word?     Captain, did you read the article in the paper?     I glanced through it.     All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.'     Now, let      me     tell      you     something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody.      That's     what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson.  <doc-sep></s>","In all three incidents that take place in the story, the criminals were stopped and caught by the police. They all seemed to be mysteriously burned in one way or another: the tires on the car melted off, Higgins' hands were burned by the rifle, and the jackets and weapons of the gang members seemed to have the same effect. Additionally, all three events were tagged by The Scorpion: the words were branded on the car, the rifle, and the jackets."
"<s>   CALL HIM NEMESIS     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on     your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,     for that matter, so do the cops!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup.     There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers.     The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.     The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney.     It was just like the movies.     The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel.     The man by the door said, Hurry up.     The man with the satchel said, One more drawer.     The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on.     That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place in New York City. The first scene takes place in a bank, where a police station is a few blocks away. The second crime takes place in Canarsie, a part of Brooklyn, at the home of Jerome Higgins, which is located in a residential neighborhood. The third crime takes place on Halloween in Manhattan, this time in a schoolyard, a neutral territory up for grabs between the Scarlet Raiders and the Challengers."
"<s>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again.     I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper?     So what?     Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?     Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?     Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers.     So they changed their name, said Hanks.     Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?     Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over.     It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight.     A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word?     Captain, did you read the article in the paper?     I glanced through it.     All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.'     Now, let      me     tell      you     something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody.      That's     what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson.  <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.     The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded.     I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'.     He says he put that on there himself, said the captain.     Stevenson shook his head. His      lawyer     says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.     He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove?     I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?     They were defective, said Hanks promptly.     All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk?     How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do      they     say?     They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere.     The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove?     I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.     What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me?     All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see.     And all      I     know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so.     And what made it so hot?     Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou      think     made it hot?     All of a sudden?     He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.     How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately.     How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?     But there's no explanation— started Stevenson.     What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just      gave     you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember?     I remember, said Stevenson.     Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson....     The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the      Daily News     :     Dear Mr. Editor,     You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten.      III     Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD.     The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war.     The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances.     The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through.     Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.     Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited.     At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started.     At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson.     They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off.     One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us?     Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way.     The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask.     Who cares? You go around the other way.  <doc-sep>It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean?     Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up.     Yes, but their      tires     .     Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest.     What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't      that     hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down.     Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing.     Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit.     Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal.     And      that     doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one?     Why? What was it, a foreign make?     No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away.     Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling.     For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense.     What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded.     Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all.     The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said.     Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk.     The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here.     I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape.     So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company.     Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me?  <doc-sep></s>","Stevenson and Hanks have a tense relationship. Though they are both in high positions at the police precinct, Hanks is the Captain, Stevenson's superior. This power dynamic is evident throughout the story, particularly when Stevenson tries to bring up his theories and suspicions about The Scorpion. Instead of hearing him out, Hanks refuses to listen, becoming increasingly frustrated and calling Stevenson's thoughts childlike nonsense. Despite this, Stevenson is still determined to get his idea through to Hanks."
"<s>   CALL HIM NEMESIS     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on     your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,     for that matter, so do the cops!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup.     There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers.     The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.     The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney.     It was just like the movies.     The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel.     The man by the door said, Hurry up.     The man with the satchel said, One more drawer.     The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on.     That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door.  <doc-sep>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again.     I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper?     So what?     Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?     Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?     Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers.     So they changed their name, said Hanks.     Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?     Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over.     It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight.     A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word?     Captain, did you read the article in the paper?     I glanced through it.     All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.'     Now, let      me     tell      you     something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody.      That's     what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson.  <doc-sep>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened.     That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone.     You left the keys in it?     Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?     The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him.     Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow.     Yes, sir. In here.     Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires?     Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup.     Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets?     Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman.     Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of      kids     had stolen the car.     It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup.     Then why did they do      that     ?     Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen?     Of course not!     Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that?     I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that.     Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully....     That was on Wednesday.     The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the      Daily News     brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.     The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:     Dear Mr. Editor:     The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper.      II     The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk.     It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.     Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.     As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.     Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep?     At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder.     Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards.  <doc-sep></s>","The Scorpion is a mysterious figure, self-proclaimed to be fighting crime, as stated in the crank letters to the Daily Mail. The true identity of The Scorpion is unknown, and no one has ever seen him. However, The Scorpion is a powerful force in the story, as he ends up being responsible for the capturing of several criminals. The Scorpion makes his presence known by tagging his signature at different crime scenes through branding, but the characters in the story, especially Stevenson, are determined to know who he is."
"<s>   THE BIG HEADACHE     BY JIM HARMON     What's the principal cause of headaches?     Why, having a head, of course!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly.     How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to      me     for helpagainst that repatriated fullback.     Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down.     I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research.     When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches.     Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—?     No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself.           Our     discovery, Mitchell said politely.     That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine.     You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin—     Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.     For the past seven years Macklin—who      was     the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of      Adastra per aspirin     .     The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.     Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus.  <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.     Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride.     I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings.     He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces.     Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment.     There came a discreet knock on the door.     Please come in, Mitchell said.     Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention.     He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven.     Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold?     Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor.     Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know.     Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk.     The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about?     Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine.     That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it?     No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches?     Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is?     I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches.  <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches.     Yes, Macklin said.     But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches      forever     by one simple injection.     I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else.     Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said.     I see. Are you two saying you      have     such a shot? Can you cureheadaches?     We think we can, Ferris said.     How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject.     There      are     a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one      effect     of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced.     We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added.     That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is?     The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin.     That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels.     The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain.     The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe.     I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work.  <doc-sep></s>","Ferris and Mitchell discuss the struggles they are experiencing with their research. They are eager to test their new research and want the test subject to be Elliot Macklin, a well-known and attractive scientist with a reputation akin to Albert Einstein. Macklin experiences migraines and the two believe that their injection shot could cure them. The two want Macklin to participate because it could ensure that their research will have strong financial support.Macklin soon enters their laboratory and begins to ask about what they’re looking to do with their research. Ferris and Mitchell discuss their theory with Macklin and how their supposed cure works. They mention to Macklin, to his dismay, that it has only been tested on animals. Macklin is skeptical and considers the injection too risky and initially does not agree to take the treatment. Macklin begins to start experiencing a migraine. As he suffers through a migraine, Ferris and Mitchell use the opportunity to try again to convince him to participate in the research. They further emphasize the very minimal potential risk. Macklin finally agrees to take the injection due to the immense pain he is experiencing. Later on, Mitchell is upset with Ferris for sharing their unverified results with the press. Ferris exclaims to Mitchell that the experiment with Macklin was a success and that he should not be concerned. The phone rings and Ferris answers it but quickly passes it to Mitchell. Macklin’s wife is on the phone accusing them of giving her husband heroin as Macklin appears to be in a trance. The doctors are concerned by the news and decide to check on the test animals. They do not find anything of concern with the test animals and go to Macklin’s house. Ferris does not seem worried to Mitchell as they wait to be let into the house. When they enter the house, an army Colonel meets them and expresses his unhappiness with their actions. As the group heads into the living room, they greet an army physician that tells them that medically there is nothing wrong with Macklin’s health the only difference is that Macklin is no longer a mathematical genius. The three go into the hallway and discuss how the experiment most likely went wrong. The Colonel becomes upset because Macklin was very important to many missions because of his invaluable research. Mitchell suddenly exclaims that he thinks that Macklin can be cured. However, Macklin overhears the possibility of a cure and protests receiving the treatment. The Colonel is upset at Macklin’s reaction and tries to convince Macklin’s wife to force him to be cured. Macklin’s wife does not wish to go against her husband’s wishes. They leave the house without convincing Macklin or his wife. Later on, Mitchell wakes up and calls Macklin. Mitchell attempts to get Macklin to trust him and goes about luring Macklin back to the laboratory by saying that he can help with the new types of worries that Macklin experiences. "
"<s>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep>   THE BIG HEADACHE     BY JIM HARMON     What's the principal cause of headaches?     Why, having a head, of course!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly.     How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to      me     for helpagainst that repatriated fullback.     Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down.     I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research.     When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches.     Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—?     No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself.           Our     discovery, Mitchell said politely.     That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine.     You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin—     Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.     For the past seven years Macklin—who      was     the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of      Adastra per aspirin     .     The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.     Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins with the two doctors, Ferris and Mitchell, discussing their research in a laboratory in the biology building. Macklin comes into their office to discuss their potential cure for headaches. It is in the office that Macklin agrees and is administered the experimental cure. Later, Mitchell is angry at Ferris and goes to scold him in the laboratory. After they receive a concerning call from Macklin’s wife, the two examine their test animals kept in cages. With no significant revelations found, they head to Macklin’s house. Macklin’s house is described as a traditional ranch style home. At the house, they see Macklin sitting in a very femininely decorated living room. Ferris, Mitchell, and the Colonel have discussions throughout the house about the possibility of a cure and how they might be able to get Macklin to take the cure. They leave the house without any success. The next section of the story begins with Mitchell waking up in his bed where he suddenly calls Macklin in an attempt to lure him back to the laboratory.  "
"<s>They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.     Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition.     Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that?     Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence.     She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them.     But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes.     She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided.     Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically.     Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy.     Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent.     But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed.     Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity.     I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said.     The colonel looked smug. Why not?     Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved.     There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—     It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority.     I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is      no     chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected.     Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable....     Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall.     I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely.     What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered.     No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius.     Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk.     I'll go with you, Ferris said.     Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.     Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor?     To celebrate, Ferris said.     The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any.     On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment.      IV     Macklin was playing jacks.     He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame.       Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.     He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.     After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.     Hello? Elliot Macklin said.     Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife.     Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked.     Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine.     I mean, are you alone?     Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though.     Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you?     There was a slight hesitation.     Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?     But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth.     I suppose so, Macklin said humbly.     You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about.     If you say so.     Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked.     I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied.     Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou?     No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more?     I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!     If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close.     That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson.     But he won't like you fixing me up more.     But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El.     If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly.  <doc-sep>   THE BIG HEADACHE     BY JIM HARMON     What's the principal cause of headaches?     Why, having a head, of course!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly.     How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to      me     for helpagainst that repatriated fullback.     Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down.     I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research.     When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches.     Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—?     No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself.           Our     discovery, Mitchell said politely.     That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine.     You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin—     Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.     For the past seven years Macklin—who      was     the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of      Adastra per aspirin     .     The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.     Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus.  <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.     Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride.     I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings.     He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces.     Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment.     There came a discreet knock on the door.     Please come in, Mitchell said.     Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention.     He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven.     Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold?     Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor.     Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know.     Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk.     The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about?     Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine.     That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it?     No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches?     Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is?     I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches.  <doc-sep></s>","It is well-known that Macklin succumbs to migraines from time to time in his life. Physically, Macklin is very fit and is regarded as having a built, athletic frame. However, internally he does suffer from various ailments. His migraine symptoms involve incorrectly substituting words with others, overstimulation of color and light between his eyes, and a concrete pain through his temples. In addition to the migraines, Macklin has a history of vascular spasms. He had even experienced a pseudo stroke in the past. "
"<s>Penobscot, Maine     July 20     Dear Joe:     Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.     There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations.     I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.     I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed.     Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.     I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly.     Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?     I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love.     I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.     I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture.     I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.     Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside.     He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull.     Every window slammed shut.     Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No,      snug as a hug in a rug     . He went on, thinking:      The olddevils.       The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.     Outside, the domed city vanished.     It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden.     Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.     Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.      And cocktails fortwo.     Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played,      Oh, You Beautiful Doll     and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to      People Will Say We're In Love     .  <doc-sep>Pouring and tumbling through the Lifo kit, consulting the manualdiligently, Manet concluded that there weren't enough parts left in thebox to go around.     The book gave instructions for The Model Mother, The Model Father, TheModel Sibling and others. Yet there weren't parts enough in the kit.     He would have to take parts from Ronald or Veronica in order to makeany one of the others. And he could not do that without the Modifier.     He wished Trader Tom would return and extract some higher price fromhim for the Modifier, which was clearly missing from the kit.     Or to get even more for simply repossessing the kit.     But Trader Tom would not be back. He came this way only once.     Manet thumbed through the manual in mechanical frustration. As he didso, the solid piece of the last section parted sheet by sheet.     He glanced forward and found the headings:      The Final Model     .     There seemed something ominous about that finality. But he had paida price for the kit, hadn't he? Who knew what price, when it came tothat? He had every right to get everything out of the kit that hecould.     He read the unfolding page critically. The odd assortment ofill-matched parts left in the box took a new shape in his mind andunder his fingers....     Manet gave one final spurt from the flesh-sprayer and stood back.     Victor was finished. Perfect.     Manet stepped forward, lifted the model's left eyelid, tweaked his nose.     Move!     Victor leaped back into the Lifo kit and did a jig on one of theflesh-sprayers.     As the device twisted as handily as good intentions, Manet realizedthat it was not a flesh-sprayer but the Modifier.     It's finished! were Victor's first words. It's done!     Manet stared at the tiny wreck. To say the least.     Victor stepped out of the oblong box. There is something you shouldunderstand. I am different from the others.     They all say that.     I am not your friend.     No?     No. You have made yourself an enemy.     Manet felt nothing more at this information than an esthetic pleasureat the symmetry of the situation.     It completes the final course in socialization, Victor continued. Iam your adversary. I will do everything I can to defeat you. I have      all     your knowledge.      You     do not have all your knowledge. If you letyourself know some of the things, it could be used against you. It ismy function to use everything I possibly can against you.     When do you start?     I've finished. I've done my worst. I have destroyed the Modifier.     What's so bad about that? Manet asked with some interest.     You'll have Veronica and Ronald and me forever now. We'll neverchange. You'll get older, and we'll never change. You'll lose yourinterest in New York swing and jet combat and Daniel Boone, and we'llnever change. We don't change and you can't change us for others. I'vemade the worst thing happen to you that can happen to any man.      I'veseen that you will always keep your friends.       <doc-sep></s>","Ferris and Mitchell believe they have an injection that can cure headaches forever. They acknowledge during their initial discussion with Macklin that there is a potential risk with the injection, but they heavily downplay the risk. From their research, the two doctors believe that the over-production in the pituitary gland creates a pressure effect that constricts blood vessels in a section of the frontal lobe. Their injection is synthetically made that is meant to feed on the pituitrin that causes the pressure effect. They believe their virus is safe because it is able to target a specific area and remain stabilized within the brain cells. After they give Macklin the injection, they later receive news that he has become a moron and is no longer a mathematical genius. The injection was successful in stopping the pain but in doing so it stopped the brain cells from functioning properly because the vessels cannot pump the necessary amount of blood through the brain to maintain an active and alert mind. "
"<s>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race.     Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin.     You      can     ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.     Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary.     Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees.     Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it.     What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir?     I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be.     Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be.           With     my headaches, like before?     Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure.     I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully.     Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head.     No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying.     You mean wondering, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?     Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.     That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid.     It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now.     No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't      think     you can.     No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't.     Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him.     Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her.  <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so.     Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it?     Hell, I don't know, I confessed.     Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a      conscience     so it'd do its best at alltimes.     Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.           Our     machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!     So what?     He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring—     What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know—     I'll show you, Ed.     He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.     Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air.     Yes, the electronic brain replied.     Watch!     Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.     Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.     My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.     Please stop, the machine pleaded.     What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people!  <doc-sep>Bombay, India     June 8     Mr. Joe Binkle     Plaza Ritz Arms     New York City     Dear Joe:     Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born.     Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation.     As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera.     Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.     I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again.     The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information.     I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness.     I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely.     All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task!     Farewell till later.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep></s>","When Macklin overhears the possibility of receiving a cure to return him back to his previous state before the injection, he protests that he does not want to receive a cure. He does not want to reverse the injection because he remembers how awful the migraines were and refuses to return back to his original state where he has to experience them. He recollects how he was always worrying back then. He is perfectly content with living in a peaceful existence as he has all the money he could want and an attractive wife. The Colonel is shocked at Macklin’s revelation and is upset when he realizes he cannot force Macklin to be cured. The Colonel, Ferris, and Mitchell go to Macklin’s wife to try to convince her to get him to be cured. The Colonel is desperate as he wants to use Macklin’s intelligence since it is such a great advantage for the country. Macklin’s wife supports her husband’s decision because she recognizes the pain and suffering Macklin has experienced. She is glad that he can be peaceful and happy, even if he is childish. Ferris seems unphased and is overall happy to celebrate that the injection did work to cure headaches. Mitchell still wants to attempt to convince Macklin to take the cure. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.     When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella.     The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return.     I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it.     I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization!     Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization.     The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha?     Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Orison McCall is applying for a job at the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. She is a government spy who has been selected from the Treasury Department to work at the bank. The man who she meets for the job is Mr. Wanji, the First Vice President. He dresses strangely compared to the regular banker. Mr. Wanji also speaks to Orison in strange slang and leaves her with the job of reading newspapers into a microphone. She takes her lunch break at noon, eats a tuna salad on whole-wheat, and returns to reading at her desk until five. Orison gets the job and notes that the bank is very bizarre. All of the workers wear earmuffs, and her only task is to read into a microphone. After her dinner, she goes home and waits to receive a call from Washington. At eleven-thirty, she receives a call from Monitor J-12 from the Department of Treasury. He asks Orison for a report but flirts with her slightly by calling her beautiful and kissing the microphone. The next morning, the bank President Dink Gerding personally welcomes her. She notes that he is as crazy as the rest of the bank, and he asks her out for dinner even though they have just met. Once Orison begins reading a copy of yesterday’s Congressional Record, Auga Vingt silently comes and introduces herself. She threatens Orison to stay away from Dink, to which Orison agrees and tells her to leave. Then, Kraft Gerding introduces himself to her, and she threatens to quit because of how crazy this bank is. Orison then receives a call from Wanji, and he tells her to tell Dink that escudo green is pale. Although she is banned from taking the elevator to the upper floor, she takes the stairs to the seventh floor instead and is greeted by the sight of millions of spiders in pink liquid. Kraft threatens to toss her into the tank, but then Dink comes and rescues her. He crashes his fist into Kraft’s jaw, and the perpetrators leave him and Orison alone. He explains to her that the creatures are Microfabridae and are more closely related to shellfish than spiders. She holds one, and Dink says that the company is raising them in secret because it does not have a patent. He lets her listen to the hymn of the Microfabridae and feed the tiny creatures. Orison swears that she can see Benjamin Franklin winking at her, but she believes it is nonsense. "
"<s>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.     When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella.     The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return.     I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it.     I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization!     Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization.     The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha?     Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep></s>","The location is primarily set at the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. Orison’s office is on the fifth floor, and it is a tiny space just large enough to hold a single desk and two chairs. There is also a telephone, a microphone, and a double-decked basket. The basket is an “In” and “Out” basket for the papers she will read. There is also an elevator, and there are always operators in earmuffs present. Although she is not allowed onto the upper floors by elevator, the building has a staircase that leads up to the upper levels. The sixth floor is locked, but the seventh floor has a glass door that is painted black and a cellar-dark landing. Inside, there is a mass of fluorescent lamps on the ceiling and boarded shut windows. One hundred and eighty steel tanks line the floor. The tanks are half-full with greenish fluid and laced together by angel-hair, delicate white lattices sparkling with pink. From the outside of the building, there is a stand-up counter down the street to eat. There is also a restaurant near Orison’s apartment called the Windsor Arms, where she grabs a meal and a single Martini. Her apartment is described as having a place to shower in and a bed. There is also a pillow, and it is where Monitor J-12 communicates with her. "
"<s>Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm.     He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said.     A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see.     What do they do? Orison asked.     That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary.     What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae.     They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong.     Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees.     That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world.     Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said.     Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands.  <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity.     THE CHURCH OF CHOICE       Enter, Play, Pray       That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand.     Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs.     I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in—     To your left, sir.     The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable.     Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth.     Hm? said Matheny.     She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead.     He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him.     I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules.     You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice.     But—I mean—when do we start actually      playing     ? What happened to thecocked dice?  <doc-sep>The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone.     I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily.     Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to.     The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor.     It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion.     Doc began to mumble louder.     I knew I had to move.     I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved.     I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable.             Outsider     ...      Thoth     ...      Dyzan     ...      Seven     ...      Hsan     ...      Beyond Six, Seven, Eight     ...      Two boxes     ...      Ralston     ...      RichardWentworth     ...      Jimmy Christopher     ...      Kent Allard     ...      Ayem     ...      Oh, are     ...      see     ....  <doc-sep></s>","The Microfabridae are tiny, flesh-pink-colored creatures that resemble shellfish. They are stone and metal eaters. These creatures are completely harmless and have six microscopic legs. Orison notices that they feel like a legged grain of sand, crisp and hard. She finds that it is similar to a baby crawdad, to which Dink agrees that the Microfabridae are similar to a sort of crustacean. The creatures also take a liking to gold. When all of the Microfabridae sing together, it is a chorus of around twenty million voices. Orison notes that their singing sounds like the sighing of the wind in winter trees. When she listens to them sing again, it sounds like wilderness, storm, and danger. However, there also exists sounds of promises of peace and harbor that act as a counterpoint. She also hears the sound of waves and the crash of breakers against granite throughout this million-year-old song. "
"<s>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison.     They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now?     All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders.     Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother.     I....     Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor.     If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you.      Samma!          Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator.     I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit?     Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale.     You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders?     I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper.     Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said.     She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him.     I'd rather not, she protested.     I'd be happier if you did, Dink said.  <doc-sep>Orison finished the      Wall Street Journal     by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's      Congressional Record     . She launched into the      Record     ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso      well     , darling, someone said across the desk.     Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up.     I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats.     I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth.     Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends.     Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt?     So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know.     Thanks, Orison said.     Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise,      n'est-ce pas     ?     Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her      WallStreet Journal     into a club and standing. Darling.     So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling?     You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone.     Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion.     The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing.     Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said.     What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing....     Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said.     Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone.     I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already.     Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped      Pickelhauben     ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it.  <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure.     Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word.     Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise....           N'est-ce pas?      Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost.     Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again?     I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And      bon voyage     .     Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor.     First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the      Wall Street Journal     from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors.     Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up.       Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa.          Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English.     Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?     Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her.     Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors.     But the building had a stairway.      III     The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.     She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.     Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed.       The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door.     Into a pair of arms.     I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two      sumo     -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes.     Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed      sumo     -wrestlers protested.     Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders.     Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted.     My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank.     I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes!     The message? Kraft Gerding demanded.     Something about escudo green. Put me down!  <doc-sep></s>","Dink Gerding is the eccentric president of the bank. He is a tall, handsome man, and Orison assumes that he is around twenty-eight the first time she meets him. He has an older brother named Kraft, but he is higher in power than his brother. When Dink first meets Orison, he is courteous and personally welcomes her to the office. However, he is also rather confident. Dink casually asks her out for dinner despite never meeting her before, and he even offers to dance. However, it is noted that Dink has some form of military experience as a soldier. His shoulders are square, and the crisp clicking of his steps is similar to a military metronome. Nevertheless, Dink is protective of Orison; this is especially shown during the confrontation with his brother. He is also gentle to her around the Microfabridae and is extremely happy when she takes an interest in holding one. "
"<s>   CINDERELLA STORY     By ALLEN KIM LANG       What a bank! The First Vice-President       was a cool cat—the elevator and the       money operators all wore earmuffs—was       just as phony as a three-dollar bill!       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit.     He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold.     Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked.     Beg pardon?     What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots.     I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said.     You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll.     That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed.     Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby?     Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank.     The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said.     What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked.     The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay?     It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation?     Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do?     Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you—     You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said.     Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's      Wall Street Journal     , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most.     Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator.  <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure.     Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word.     Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise....           N'est-ce pas?      Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost.     Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again?     I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And      bon voyage     .     Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor.     First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the      Wall Street Journal     from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors.     Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up.       Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa.          Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English.     Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?     Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her.     Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors.     But the building had a stairway.      III     The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.     She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.     Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed.       The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door.     Into a pair of arms.     I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two      sumo     -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes.     Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed      sumo     -wrestlers protested.     Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders.     Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted.     My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank.     I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes!     The message? Kraft Gerding demanded.     Something about escudo green. Put me down!  <doc-sep>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison.     They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now?     All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders.     Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother.     I....     Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor.     If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you.      Samma!          Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator.     I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit?     Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale.     You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders?     I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper.     Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said.     She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him.     I'd rather not, she protested.     I'd be happier if you did, Dink said.  <doc-sep></s>","Mr. Wanji is the Vice-President of the bank and the first person Orison meets. His fashion choice is not the same as a public picture banker. When she first applies for her job, he wears a hound’s-tooth check suit and a scarlet vest. He also wears a pair of furry green earmuffs even though it is not cold. To top off his outfit, he matches it with a pair of rough-leather desert boots. Orison does not know his ethnicity, but she guesses if he is Oriental based on his name. He speaks strangely too, and Orison finds herself unable to understand him unless he says in plain English. It is a very casual form of speech with lots of slang mixed in. Later, when he calls Orison, he speaks in a completely different language. Mr. Wanji is loud and carefree, as he did not hesitate to give Orison more money than supposedly her last job paid. When she asks him about tax numbers and social security information, he waves it off as if it is nothing. He is very carefree, too, sending Orison to deliver a message to Dink when she is supposed not ever be allowed to the upper floors. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER     BY KEITH LAUMER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He was as ancient as time—and as strange as     his own frightful battle against incredible odds!      I     In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection.     Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation.     Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon.     I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme.     Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions?     I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—     Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way.     I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea—     You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—     You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!  <doc-sep>On his way out the librarian shouted at him:       A Tale of a Tub     ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door.     Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too.     His house was dancing.     It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity.     The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch.     From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room.     He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe.     As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room.     Help! Lieutenant MacBride called.     Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly.           Winds     , he said in a whisper.     What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa.           March     winds, he said.     What?!     April showers!     The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are      not     Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is      not     59 degrees.The humidity is      not     47%!  <doc-sep></s>","With pressure coming from Fred, who elected him into this investigation, Tremaine first goes to the police station to meet his friend who works here so that he can get familiar with the town and learn about unusual activities and strange events if there are any. Jess, the police officer, is surprised to see Tremaine coming back to this town. Tremaine asks Jess if he has any idea of a transmitter in this area, however, Jess does not seem really interested in the transmitters as he think drawing is a beer advertisement. Afterwards, Jess tells Tremaine about the old man Bram who seems to have lived in this town forever. He is the mystery man of the town. As a foreigner who no one knows much about, he seems strange. Knowing that Bram has lived on the same property since as long as anyone could remember, he goes to the Municipal Office of Records to check the last time that there was a change of hands on Bram’s property.  Then Tremaine goes to the Elsby Public Library, checking for the newspapers around the time when Bram bought the property. On his way back to the hotel that he is staying at, he notices Grammond’s men. But Tremaine has told Grammond to keep his men away from this town for now. Apparently, Grammond didn’t listen, Tremaine is afraid that with the police searching around the town, the person they are looking for will sense that something is off, and will hide before they are able to find him/her.Desiring to learn more about this old man, Jess has also mentioned to Tremaine that Linda Carroll had been with Bram for a while when Carroll was in her twenties, which is a few decades ago. So then Tremaine goes to Carroll’s house hoping to learn more about the mysterious man Bram. Then after he left Carroll’s house, he goes to Bram’s house together with Jess. Shots were fired, the house is empty, but Bram is not there. They go straight to Hull Gaskin to ask questions since he did set fire on Bram’s place before. "
"<s>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.     You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves.     I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.     The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully.     I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering.     What date was it you wanted?     Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.     The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you.     I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.     On page four, under a column headed      County Notes     he saw the name Bram:     Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths.     May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?     The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye:     A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river.     The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow.     Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.     A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car.     Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car.  <doc-sep>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him?     There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest.     I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases.     I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him.     Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear.     What does he do for a living?     I have no idea.     Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story?     I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.     You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast?     That is his only name. Just ... Bram.     You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—     A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently.     I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me.     Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....     Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited.     Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house.     Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone.     I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen.     He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again.     This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it?     Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James.     May I see it?     She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me?     Miss Carroll nodded.     There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless....     I'd be grateful for any lead.     Bram fears the thunder.      III     As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked:     Any luck, Jimmy?     Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid.     Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?     Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.     As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me.     I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.     Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking—     We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched.     The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...?     He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun?     In the car.     Better get it.     Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table.     This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.     Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance.     I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess.     A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said.     Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.     That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.     Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.     It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall.     What do you make of it. Jimmy?     A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks?     I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions.  <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from.     How long's he lived here in Elsby?     Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.     Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen?     You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again.     I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store....     Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire.     What was the idea of that?     Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age.     Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town.     Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.     Tremaine shook his head.     Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess....     What about her and Bram? A romance?  <doc-sep></s>","Tremaine learns from Jess that Bram is the mystery man of the Elsby town. He is a foreigner to the town despite the fact that he has similar appearances as the rest of the town. People do not know where he is from, when he started living in the town, and not even his full name, but there are still many conspiracies about him. The clerk at the Municipal Office of Record is confident that Bram has never been seen between sundown and sunup. He also tells Tremaine that the property that Bram currently lives on was purchased by him in 1901. Tremaine learns from the newspapers that the same property was accidentally caught on fire from a thunderstorm about a year before the transaction was made between Bram and J. P. Spivey. Interestingly, from Jess, Tremaine also learns that Hull and his friends started a fire on Bram’s place some time ago. Tremaine acknowledged the relationship between the young Bram and young Linda Carroll. Carroll explains to Tremaine how he told her that there is a cave beneath his house. And every night he has to fight evil beings that are right below his house. He went downstairs for the night and by the time he came up, it was dawn. Later, he handed her a locket which allows her to ask him to come simply by pressing it in a certain way. Moreover, Carroll tells Tremaine that he is afraid of thunder. Furthermore, after Bram has gone missing, Tremaine learns from Hull that Bram is a Commie. "
"<s>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him?     There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest.     I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases.     I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him.     Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear.     What does he do for a living?     I have no idea.     Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story?     I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.     You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast?     That is his only name. Just ... Bram.     You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—     A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently.     I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me.     Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....     Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited.     Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house.     Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone.     I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen.     He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again.     This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it?     Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James.     May I see it?     She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me?     Miss Carroll nodded.     There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless....     I'd be grateful for any lead.     Bram fears the thunder.      III     As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked:     Any luck, Jimmy?     Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid.     Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?     Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.     As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me.     I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.     Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking—     We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched.     The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...?     He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun?     In the car.     Better get it.     Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table.     This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.     Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance.     I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess.     A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said.     Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.     That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.     Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.     It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall.     What do you make of it. Jimmy?     A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks?     I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions.  <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from.     How long's he lived here in Elsby?     Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.     Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen?     You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again.     I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store....     Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire.     What was the idea of that?     Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age.     Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town.     Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.     Tremaine shook his head.     Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess....     What about her and Bram? A romance?  <doc-sep>Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call.     It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this—     I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out—     Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners.     Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.     Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel.     He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly.     Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I—     There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled.     I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said.     Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him.     You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something.     Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.     You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.     I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.     Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll.     I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion?     Of course.     How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?  <doc-sep></s>","From Jess, Tremaine learns that the school teacher, Linda Carroll had a relationship with Bram while they were young. Carroll’s family is quite wealthy and she was very beautiful. People in the town was not really up to her standards. Bram is a foreigner and does not really like social events. However, apparently, Carroll went off together with Bram one day afternoon with almost the whole town there. Then the next day Bram was not by her side, she came back by herself. This made her reputation really bad and she could not even be hired as a teacher for 10 years afterwards. From Carroll, Tremaine learns another story. She seems to not know Bram well. She confirms that she and Bram was in a relationship. And after Bram invited her to his place one day, he explains that he has to fight evil beings below his house every night. After they arrived at his house, she was left in the carriage for the whole night while he was below the house until dawn. Thus she decided to not talk to him when him came to see her in the carriage again. He gave her a locket where a pattern of tapping would allow him to get to her if she ever needs him. Interestingly, she also tells Tremaine that Bram is afraid of the thunder."
"<s>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him?     There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest.     I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases.     I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him.     Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear.     What does he do for a living?     I have no idea.     Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story?     I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.     You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast?     That is his only name. Just ... Bram.     You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—     A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently.     I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me.     Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....     Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited.     Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house.     Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone.     I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen.     He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again.     This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it?     Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James.     May I see it?     She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me?     Miss Carroll nodded.     There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless....     I'd be grateful for any lead.     Bram fears the thunder.      III     As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked:     Any luck, Jimmy?     Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid.     Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?     Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.     As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me.     I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.     Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking—     We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched.     The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...?     He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun?     In the car.     Better get it.     Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table.     This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.     Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance.     I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess.     A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said.     Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.     That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.     Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.     It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall.     What do you make of it. Jimmy?     A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks?     I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions.  <doc-sep>Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth.     Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority.     Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though.     The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks?     Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess.     In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.     Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment.     It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings.     I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern—     Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it.     The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas?     That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended.     I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ...     Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ...     Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid.     Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.     Well, what about him?     Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head.     There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples.  <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from.     How long's he lived here in Elsby?     Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.     Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen?     You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again.     I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store....     Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire.     What was the idea of that?     Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age.     Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town.     Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.     Tremaine shook his head.     Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess....     What about her and Bram? A romance?  <doc-sep></s>","Jess is a police officer at the Elsby town where both Jess and Tremaine grew up. They have not seen each other in a very long time. Jess is surprised to see Tremaine showing up at Elsby again after being away for such a long time. Tremaine has explained to Jess that he is here to figure out the location of a transmitter. While Jess does not seem to be interested in the transmitters, he tells Tremaine about Bram. He explains to him that Bram is quite mysterious, which lead Tremaine to investigate on Bram’s properties. He informs Tremaine about Bram’s relationship with Linda Carroll, and then Tremaine pays her a visit and asks about Bram. Tremaine asks Jess to not tell anyone what they’ve discussed, but pretend that he is a tourist. Later, Jess asks Tremaine to find Bram together after pulling a car next to him on the street. Realizing that Bram is not home and the house seemed suspicious with blood and shotgun shell, they go to question Hull who is being held at the police station. Since Jess works at the police station, he can easily have Tremaine ask Hull questions. "
"<s>   THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER     BY KEITH LAUMER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He was as ancient as time—and as strange as     his own frightful battle against incredible odds!      I     In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection.     Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation.     Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon.     I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme.     Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions?     I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—     Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way.     I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea—     You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—     You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place in the late twentieth century in a town in America named Elsby. It starts out in Tremaine’s hotel room, after he is pressured, he goes to Elsby Municipal Police to find Jess. We follow Tremaine to the Municipal Office of Record and the Elsby Public Library to find out more information regarding the property that Bram owns currently, the mystery man in the town. Then he visits Linda Carroll’s house to learn more about Bram, but she does not seem to know much either. Later we follow Jess and Tremaine to Bram’s house since Jess is concerned that he still have not seen Bram. At Bram’s house, they do not find him, but there is blood and other suspicious objects. They believe that they have to find Hull in the police station. The story ends with Hull, Jess and Tremaine inside the police station at where Hull is being held. "
"<s>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  <doc-sep>  A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep></s>","Major Polk is given orders by his Boss, Colonel Walsh, to go to Venus in search of a man named Joe. Mars is in open revolt against the Colonel and the system that he runs, and Walsh tells Polk that there is a man on Venus who will be able to solve the problem of the revolt, as he spent time on Mars, and knows the natives. The Major and the Colonel hate each other, and it's clear from the get-go that the Colonel is setting the Major up for a trap. He tells Polk that the man's name is Joe, and that he has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. The Major travels to Venus to find this man, and complete the mission. When he arrives though, it becomes clear to him soon that every native Venusian is named Joe, and they all love cigarettes. Polk calls the Major from the office on Venus, asking for extra information, but the Colonel gives none. He has screwed him. The Major decides to look for this man regardless, as returning to Earth without having completed the mission could mean a demotion or a loss of job. He hires a guide to take him through the jungle terrain of Venus, obviously named Joe. As they spend weeks traveling through the jungle together they quickly become friends. They stop at various villages together, where they meet the locals, they chat on their walks and the Major tells Joe all about his past. After a few weeks, they arrive at a village, where a starship and the Colonel are waiting for them. He has a gun pointer and Polk, informing him he plans on killing him, because Polk ratted on Walsh when they were in the academy together about dozing off while he was on watch over a tank filled with uranium. Just before he goes to shoot the Major, he starts insulting the locals of Mars, and then natives in general. Joe becomes visibly upset. The story ends, and it's presumed that Joe will save the Major. "
"<s>  A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe.     What's the story? I whispered.     He shrugged knowingly and continued walking.     And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet.     What...? I started.     It's all right, Joe said, smiling.     The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand.     Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head.     Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off.     Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness.     I see you found your man, Walsh said.     I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game.     I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal?     Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel,      Major     . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality.     I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle.     We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major?     If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave.     Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow.     Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games.     You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really.     You're welcome, I said.     It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me.     It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off.     Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely.     You didn't have to report me, Walsh said.     No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!     Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama.     I could hear Joe breathing beside me.     I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand?     Good, I said. And I meant it.     This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible.     Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun?     You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command.     The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they....     Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it.     What about the natives? I asked.     Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while.     A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement.  <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh.     Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus.     I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me.     I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called.     He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds.     Call me Joe, he said.     I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this      was     going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said.     Same here, Toots, he answered.     The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim.     You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom.     You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?     I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it.     Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first.     Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian.     Are you buying information or are you just curious?     Can you take me there? I asked.     Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is.     The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars.     He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go.     He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little?     I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell.     On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II.     There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.     I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal?     Call me Joe, he answered.     He caught me off balance. What?     Joe, he said again.     A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you?     I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking?     That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....       But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like     Joe.      Among the natives, I mean.       Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible....     What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again.     Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack?     Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it.     I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender.     Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going?     Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied.     I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very....     You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked.     Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh.     You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue.     Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please?     Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar.     So long, Joe, he said to the bartender.     See you, Joe, the bartender called back.  <doc-sep></s>","The Colonel and the Major seemed as if they were acquaintances before they first fell out. The Colonel had called the Major, by his first name, Fred. Now, he only calls him Major, as a mark of disrespect, since the colonel somehow outranks him. The Colonel also demands that Polk use his proper title, as a way of putting him down. They initially fell out because one night, while the Colonel was supposed to be on boiled watch, guarding the uranium in a tank beneath the barracks, he fell asleep on duty. The entire barracks could've been blown up. The Major had to report him to their superiors. This meant that the colonel's career took a big hit, and he had to fight his way back into the ranks. He felt as if the Major betrayed him, and ratted him out. Now, the Colonel is in charge of Mars, where he has caused a revolt based on his shocking treatment of the natives. His prejudice towards the native people of Venus and Mars is another reason the Major hates him. "
"<s>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  <doc-sep>  A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time.     Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime.     Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself.     Umm.     Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't      have     tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and—     Go to those      head-shrinkers     ?     Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way.     Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you      make     me go?     Violation of Civil Rights.     Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.     How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done.     In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself!     He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room.     Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime!     Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it:      John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St.       When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks.     Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.  <doc-sep></s>","The main setting of the story is the planet Venus. The planet is described as being extremely hot, and having the scent of an old shoe and after shave. There are plants everywhere, of all sizes and varieties, some with strange and wonderful flowers. There is a station for Space II, which includes The Officers Club: a small shack which functions as a bar, and The Captain's Shack. The world is covered in thick jungle, which is impossible to orient unless you're a local. The floor of the jungle is filled with sharp undergrowth that would shred your feet. In the jungle are little hidden pathways that lead to small villages, where native Venusians live. "
"<s>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  <doc-sep>  A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh.     Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus.     I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me.     I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called.     He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds.     Call me Joe, he said.     I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this      was     going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said.     Same here, Toots, he answered.     The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim.     You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom.     You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?     I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it.     Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first.     Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian.     Are you buying information or are you just curious?     Can you take me there? I asked.     Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is.     The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars.     He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go.     He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little?     I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell.     On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II.     There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.     I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal?     Call me Joe, he answered.     He caught me off balance. What?     Joe, he said again.     A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you?     I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking?     That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....       But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like     Joe.      Among the natives, I mean.       Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible....     What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again.     Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack?     Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it.     I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender.     Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going?     Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied.     I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very....     You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked.     Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh.     You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue.     Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please?     Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar.     So long, Joe, he said to the bartender.     See you, Joe, the bartender called back.  <doc-sep></s>","The relationship between the two characters starts off as one of business. Polk hires Joe to show him through the jungle. Joe is described as the best that there is, as he has lived there all his life. The two set off immediately for the jungle. As they journey through the forest, they begin to talk. Polk finds that he really enjoys the company of the Venusian. He likes that Joe always seems to be happy, and knows just what to say to cheer Polk up. He admires that he's so friendly to the locals, and immediately chats and laughs with them. Polk soon begins speaking freely to Joe, telling him about his past, as Joe would listen with the sympathetic ear. They found that they hsa a lot in common. This is why it was shocking to discover that Joe was in fact working for the Colonel the whole time, leading Polk right to him, and right to his death. "
"<s>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  <doc-sep>  A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe.     What's the story? I whispered.     He shrugged knowingly and continued walking.     And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet.     What...? I started.     It's all right, Joe said, smiling.     The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand.     Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head.     Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off.     Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness.     I see you found your man, Walsh said.     I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game.     I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal?     Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel,      Major     . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality.     I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle.     We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major?     If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave.     Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow.     Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games.     You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really.     You're welcome, I said.     It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me.     It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off.     Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely.     You didn't have to report me, Walsh said.     No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!     Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama.     I could hear Joe breathing beside me.     I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand?     Good, I said. And I meant it.     This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible.     Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun?     You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command.     The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they....     Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it.     What about the natives? I asked.     Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while.     A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement.  <doc-sep></s>","When the Major first arrives, he meets a man named Joe. He is a native. The Major thinks that he may have found his man already, but when he asks him if he's a trader, which would match the description that the colonel gave him, the native tells him that he's never traded anything in his life. He then keeps meeting natives, all of whom are named Joe. He asks the Captain why all the Venusians are named Joe. The captain explains that it's because when the men of the Terran space program arrived they used their slang with the locals, all calling them Joe. The men would tell them that if they did a job for them, they would get a pack of cigarettes. Because the Venusians had no names of their own before this, eventually the name Joe stuck, and everyone on the planet answered to it. They also kept an affinity for cigarettes. "
"<s>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable.     Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.     Even      I     know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?     Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that!     He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something—     She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid—     You      have     to marry him?     Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain.     And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern.     There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how?      How?          Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection.     She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me.     A yo-yo?     Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent.     A      yo-yo     ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!     He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted.       Queazy, I've gotit!       <doc-sep></s>","Bob Parker, the President of Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., sells asteroids to wealthy people on earth. Clients ask for asteroids with size parameters and specifications, and Bob finds them in space and hauls them to earth. His company is almost bankrupt because a rival company, Saylor & Saylor, stole his idea and now offers the same services. Bob receives mail from Mr. Andrew S. Burnside with a request for an asteroid that he would like to use in an upcoming wedding.Bob and his partner Queazy set out to find the perfect asteroid for Mr. Burnside, although they know it’s a longshot. Fairly quickly, they find one that looks perfect. The men land on the asteroid, and Bob deploys his atomic-whirl spectroscope to test it. Suddenly, a beautiful woman interrupts him and demands that they leave the asteroid. She pulls out her spasticizer gun before telling them that they can have it in a month after she’s gone. Bob explains that they are desperate, but the girl retorts that her fate is worse than death if she leaves.Suddenly, the Saylor brothers’ ship appears, and Bob tells the girl that they have to fight this enemy together. Wally and Billy Saylor, along with three other men, jump out of the ship. Bob tells them that Mr. Burnside has ordered this asteroid, and the Saylor brothers say that they received the same order. Bob quickly grabs the girl’s spasticizer while Queazy throws his body at Billy. However, Wally manages to shoot the gun out of Bob’s hand and attack him. Bob is knocked unconscious in the scuffle. When Bob wakes up, he is completely alone, floating in space. He panics because he has very little oxygen left. Finally, he hears Queazy’s voice explaining that the girl used her ship’s technology to find them both. The mystery girl introduces herself as Starre Lowenthal, the granddaughter of Mr. Burnside. She concedes that this entire mission was fake. She told her grandfather that she would only marry her fiance Mac if he could get this particular asteroid, and then she made plans to conquer and protect the asteroid so it could not be supplied for the wedding. Bob is confident that they can reach the Saylor brothers before they bring the asteroid back to earth, but his plan does nothing to protect Starre from marrying a man she doesn’t love. She agrees to help Bob and Queazy. Within five days, Bob realizes he is in love with Starre. Starre compares her small ship to a yo-yo, and Bob gets an idea - they will use Starre’s ship like a yo-yo to retrieve the asteroid from the Saylor brothers. Once the team catches up to the Saylor brothers, Bob flings Starre’s ship at the asteroid several times, and Wally calls them to tell them that they might die as a result of the damage their ship has sustained. Bob makes it clear that they have no intention of stopping, and the Saylor brothers release the asteroid. "
"<s>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.     Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up?     No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—     Who's Mac? Queazy demanded.     My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely      impossible     itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody      did     find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies.     Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.     How long were we floating around out there?     Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot.           Ouch!      Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back!     Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said.       Oh!     And when you get it back, you'll land it.     That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay?     She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess.     Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that.     Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?     Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley.  <doc-sep></s>","The Saylor brothers, Wally and Billy, are Bob Parker’s enemies. Bob was the first person with the unique idea to sell asteroids to wealthy people on earth, and his business would have been very successful if the Saylor brothers did not poach his idea and begin stealing his clients. Bob worries about the Saylor brothers from the beginning of the story, and he acknowledges that they do not always play by the rules. If Wally and Billy can make a buck by inconveniencing or cheating someone else, they will do it. The brothers are not only intimidating in terms of their business prowess; they are also described as giant when compared to Bob. Queasy and Bob have a legitimate order from Mr. Burnside for the asteroid, and they have no idea that the Saylor brothers have received the same order. Yet, they still worry that somehow, someway, their enemies will hear about the potential to make half a million dollars and try to steal their opportunity out from under them. Within moments of setting eyes on their spaceship, Bob tells Starre that they have to fight the Saylor brothers together. He doesn’t know her at all, and she actually just pulled a gun on him, but he so deeply mistrusts Wally and Billy that it’s worth it to take a chance on Starre.Of course, Bob turns out to be right. The second the Saylor brothers get a chance to potentially kill Bob, Queazy, and Starre, they take it. Bob floats in space, unconscious, for several weeks before Starre eventually finds Queazy and Bob, and they give him oxygen and food. Bob is truly close to death before his friends save him in the knick of time, and the Saylor brothers would be perfectly fine with that outcome. Wally and Billy give Bob all the motivation in the world to try and steal the asteroid back, and Bob is determined to catch up with his rivals and make it work somehow. When he comes up with his yo-yo idea using Starre’s ship, he shows zero empathy for the Saylor brothers. During his attempts to retrieve the rock, he seriously damages the brothers’ ship, and they have the gall to call him and attempt to make him feel guilty about their desperate state. Bob, however, cannot be swayed. He knows that he found the asteroid first and that the brothers purposefully cast him out into space to die. His determination saves the day when the Saylor brothers are forced to dispatch Mr. Burnside’s asteroid. "
"<s>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable.     Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.     Even      I     know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?     Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that!     He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something—     She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid—     You      have     to marry him?     Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain.     And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern.     There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how?      How?          Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection.     She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me.     A yo-yo?     Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent.     A      yo-yo     ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!     He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted.       Queazy, I've gotit!       <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  <doc-sep></s>","Bob Parker is taken with Starre Lowenthal from the moment she appears in front of him. Starre wears a spacesuit when Bob and Queazy land on her asteroid and begin conducting tests to see if it’s a good fit for Mr. Burnside, and although Bob can’t get a look at her entire appearance, he is immediately attracted to her blue eyes, beautiful brown hair, and full lips. The fact that Starre is curt and demanding does not change his innate attraction to her. Bob does not get offended by Starre’s refusal to hold a real conversation with him; he just keeps trying. Even Starre’s decision to pull out her spasticizer and aim it at the men doesn’t truly deter Bob. He continues to try and convince her that his economic well-being depends on the asteroid. The only time he becomes annoyed with the beautiful girl is when he sets eyes on her perfect ship and assumes that she is already plenty wealthy. Still, he chooses not to attack nor namecall, he simply uses reason to convince her that the asteroid is more useful to him.Moments later, when the Saylor brothers show up at Starre’s asteroid, Starre already has a good feeling about Bob and Queazy. That’s why, when Wally and Billy attack the trio, it is Starre that uses her dumbbell-shaped ship to locate the men and save their lives. Bob and Queazy end up owing everything to the beautiful brunette. Without her, their corpses would be floating through space. The first time that Bob sees Starre after she saves his life, he notices the paper flower in her hair and the pretty blue outfit she’s wearing. He can’t take his eyes off of her, and his feelings towards her do not change when she admits that she essentially set them up. She is Mr. Burnside’s granddaughter, and she never intended to let anyone find the perfect asteroid and haul it back to earth. She set up a deal with her grandfather that she knew he couldn’t follow through with. Starre does not want to marry Mac, the man that she’s engaged to, and that’s why she was living on the perfect asteroid that Mr. Burnside ordered from Bob and the Saylor brothers. Although Bob has every right to be angry with Starre, he completely falls in love with her on their mission to recollect the asteroid that the Saylor brothers stole from them. He tries to convince her not to marry Mac, but she acknowledges that she must hold up her end of the bargain with her grandfather. Unfortunately, Bob can’t have it both ways. If he wants to save his company from going under, he needs the asteroid, and if he fulfills Mr. Burnside’s order, Starre must marry Mac. "
"<s>   COSMIC YO-YO     By ROSS ROCKLYNNE     Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply     cheap. Trouble also handled without charge.     Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for.     Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here!     Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations.     She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it!     He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature.     Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars!     Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid.     Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides.     In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read:       Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton.    <doc-sep>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  <doc-sep></s>","Bob and Queazy are willing to risk their lives to try and get the asteroid back from Wally and Billy Saylor because their economic survival depends on it. Bob is the president of Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., and his rivals, the Saylor brothers, have put his business in serious jeopardy. Although his novel idea to sell asteroids to wealthy earthmen originally made him some cash, it wasn’t long before other companies got wind of his genius idea and started offering the same service. If the Saylor brothers keep beating Bob and Queazy to the punch, the men will no longer be in business.When Starre demands that Bob and Queazy leave her asteroid since she is the common law owner, both men try to explain to her why they desperately need the rock. The potential to make $550,000 means everything to Bob because his failure to secure that capital means that he and Queazy will lose their business and slave away for the rest of their lives as glass factory workers. "
"<s>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable.     Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.     Even      I     know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?     Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that!     He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something—     She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid—     You      have     to marry him?     Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain.     And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern.     There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how?      How?          Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection.     She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me.     A yo-yo?     Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent.     A      yo-yo     ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!     He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted.       Queazy, I've gotit!       <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  <doc-sep></s>","Bob Parker almost dies after the Saylor brothers find Starre’s asteroid and decide that although Bob and Queazy landed on it first, they want to be the ones to fulfill Mr. Burnside’s order. Bob tries to defend his turf with Starre’s spasticizer, but Wally is able to shoot the gun out of his hands. Bob is unable to defend himself from the ginormous Saylor brothers after he loses Starre’s weapon, and he is beaten in the stomach and thrown into space to float with little oxygen and zero sustenance. He remains isolated, drifting through space, for three weeks before his friend Queazy and Starre are able to locate him. He describes the sensation as “being buried alive.” At the time that he is found, he has only a few short days of oxygen left until he will choke to death. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent.     It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this.     I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words.     And among the things, Laura, I found a ring.     A wedding ring.     In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose.     Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream.     He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now.     Do you know      why     he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth?     It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children.     You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be      sure     until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think,      I might have gone there; I could have been the first     ?     We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways?     Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it.     Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson.     Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal.     Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura.     I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours.   <doc-sep>I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework.     Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself.     At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot.     That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all.     Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands.     We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny.     He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then.     But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family?     I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson.     You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster.     There was silence.     You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here.     You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura?     You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that.     I could never hate you.     It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it.     One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really.     I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet?     Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up?     I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up      what     ?     Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew.     All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path.     Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars.     Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before.       You can go into space     , I thought,      and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home.         Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust.       I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben.     It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense.  <doc-sep></s>","After studying for six years, Ben sits at his U.S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight graduation. Next to Ben is Mickey, his best friend who also plans to go into deep space. Ben is an orphan, and he wonders if the only person he invited, Charlie Taggart, is there. Ben met Charlie, an accomplished spaceman, when he was a boy, and Charlie took him under his wing. When Ben connects with Charlie after the ceremony, he worries about his gaunt face and terrible cough. Ben then meets Laura, Mickey’s sister. There is an undeniable and instant connection between them. Charlie only has 24 hours to spend with Ben before he has to report back for duty, and although he wants to have some drinks with Ben alone, Laura invites them both over, and Ben can’t help but say yes.Moments later, Dean Dawson reminds Ben about an offer to teach at the Academy. Mickey takes this opportunity to admit to Ben that he will be working as a Supervisor at White Sands Port. Ben is disappointed to hear that Mickey has chosen to live a boring life, but Mickey insists that he does not want to die in his 30s. After dinner at Mickey’s house, Laura and Ben take a walk together. Laura asks about Charlie’s life before he was a spaceman, but Ben doesn’t have answers for her. He doesn’t know anything about Charlie’s past. Ben looks at Laura and realizes that she has feelings for him, too. When she suggests that a career in deep space may not be worth what Ben would be leaving behind, Ben finds himself at a crossroads. Should he live his dream  or should he settle down with the woman he loves and live an ordinary life?The next morning, Charlie gives Ben an old tin with souvenirs inside, and then tells him to meet him at the Space Rat, a little cafe on Mars, when he gets there. Ben still hasn’t chosen a career path and decides to stay with Mickey and Laura and their family until he does. He experiences forty days of happiness with his love, Laura, and forty nights of indecision about which career to choose. Ben asks Laura to marry him, but she says she can’t unless he decides to stay on earth. The next day, Ben receives a message informing him that Charlie has died from lung-rot, a disease he got in space. When Ben looks in Charlie’s tin and finds useless trinkets, he decides  to take the teaching job so that he does not live a similarly meaningless life. However, hours later, he looks in the tin again and finds a wedding ring. Ben surmises that Charlie wanted to tell him to take the chance on space, and he believes it’s the right decision to make. He can’t live his life without knowing what the stars look like, even if that means he can’t have Laura too. "
"<s>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made.     What do you make of them? asked Stark.     Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity.     And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia.     Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist.     That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself.     Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man.     The two of us. Man and woman.     But are there any others?     How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman?     But is there more than one man or woman?     How could there be more than one of anything?     The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people?     You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky.     Thanks a lot, said Steiner.     But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark.     No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people?     And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling.     Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain.     Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits.     We will, said Captain Stark.     They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you.     If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining.     Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site.     And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped.     If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one.     I won't be the first to eat one. You eat.     Ask him first. You ask him.     Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples?     Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden.  <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that.     No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system!     The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly.           Think.     If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.     Ri looked around at the shadows.     That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing      him     to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy.     No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance.     You know that's not right.     Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen.     When the invasion starts, he'll have to command      all     their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth.     You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.     Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess?     Ri swallowed sickly.     Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?     Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat.  <doc-sep>But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they hadever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood thatthe Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders,still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to noconflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to belearned. So he could not hate these people.     But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and wentinto the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they mightbe leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to seethe fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone andtried, for the last time, to call Bossio.     After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It wasa very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, andhe was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that hemust be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along amackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone.     They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking ofeveryone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be likethat, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and thecoffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at theship.     It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to seea great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes.Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change theweight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Someof the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go andwere still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children wentautomatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. Theelders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keepthemselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up.     In the end, the ship took forty-six people.     Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw himstanding by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buriedin her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected,rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years wentslipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had neverunderstood before, because he had never once been among men in greattrouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this whilethere was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside andthe airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharpburning smell—she couldn't get off the ground.  <doc-sep></s>","Ben experiences a lot of anxiety at his graduation from the U.S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight because of the high expectations he perceives that the audience has of the 25 men who are graduating. The students have spent the last six years of their lives dedicating themselves to learning about minerals, metals, colonization, and space travel for the sake of helping the people on Earth. The class of 1995 is the first of its kind, and the family members and friends who attend the graduation understandably have very high hopes for the graduates. The graduation speaker is Robert Chandler, a spaceman who landed a rocket on Mars and created the first colony there. He has also traveled to Venus twice. For most laymen, accomplishing something as adventurous as landing on other planets is unthinkable, and the men graduating are the next in line to make such unthinkable journeys. Ben looks out over the crowds of people and thinks to himself that these strangers are looking at him as if he’s some sort of god. He knows that they expect the world from him and his fellow graduates, and he worries that he won’t be able to deliver on such incredible promises. "
"<s>Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message.     I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman....     Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps.     I stood staring at the cylinder.     Charles Taggart was dead.     Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie.     My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied!     I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ...     I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on.     You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly—     Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth.     I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box.     Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol.       This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home.       It'd be a great future     , I thought.      You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot.       To hell with it!     I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone.     I accepted that job teaching.  <doc-sep>And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent.     It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this.     I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words.     And among the things, Laura, I found a ring.     A wedding ring.     In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose.     Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream.     He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now.     Do you know      why     he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth?     It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children.     You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be      sure     until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think,      I might have gone there; I could have been the first     ?     We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways?     Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it.     Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson.     Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal.     Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura.     I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours.   <doc-sep>Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are?     I blinked. Who?     My folks.     That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart.     Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the      LunarLady     , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands.     I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet.     My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The      Lunar Lady     was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars.       It doesn't matter     , I told myself.     Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row!     Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big.     And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth.       They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do.       I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared.  <doc-sep></s>","Charlie Taggart, also known as Stardust Charlie, is a very important character in the story. Ben is orphaned at the age of four when his parents perished in a strato-jet crash. Within a few years, he meets Charlie, a successful spaceman, at the Long Island Spaceport. He follows him around, eager to learn everything he can about space, and Charlie eventually becomes the closest thing Ben has to a family member. Although Ben doesn’t know if Charlie will show up at his graduation, he is happy to see he has taken 24 hours off of work to come and celebrate with him. He worries, however, that Charlie looks very ill. He becomes even more concerned when Charlie leaves a small tin for Ben to look through after he leaves. Charlie admits that he has cheated death many times, and he knows he won’t be able to escape it forever. Ben remains hopeful that they will see each other again when Charlie tells him to meet him at the Space Rat, a cafe on Mars. After Ben receives word that Charlie died from lung-rot, he takes it as a sign that he should stay on earth and live an ordinary life with Laura as his wife. The trinkets in Charlie’s tin do not impress Ben or symbolize a life well-lived. Yet, hours later, Ben finds Charlie’s wedding ring and changes his mind about his entire life’s path. He knows that Charlie wanted to talk to him alone before he died, and he never gave him the chance to tell him about the same difficult decisions he had to make. Ben realizes that Charlie’s life may not be one that’s suitable for everyone, but it was certainly a life worth living. Charlie returned to space knowing that he was about to die because the planets and moons and stars were his reason for living. To Charlie, the sacrifices he made to be a spaceman were worth it, and Ben sees that he wants that for himself as well. "
"<s>Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted.     One morning I thought,      Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much?       All day the thought lay in my mind like fire.     That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife.     You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed.     Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher?     Can't a spaceman marry, too?     Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for      maybe     two months,      maybe     twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what?     Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach.     Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on?     Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes.     Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the      Cyclops     . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas—     I know, Laura. Don't say it.     You had to finish. It was a monster.     That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep.       You've got to decide now     , I told myself.      You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice.       The teaching job was still open. The spot on the      Odyssey     was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto.       You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now.         Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book.       I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the      Odyssey     where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal.     That's what he'd say.     And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always.     Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do?  <doc-sep>The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen.     His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes.     Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses.     Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth.     You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind.     It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.     Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen.     He was a neatly dressed civilian.     Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.     The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey.     Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the      Odyssey's     junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.     He'd sought long for that key.  <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.     He sat straight up, his chest heaving.     The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed      red beard     !     Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain.     The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.     And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears.     His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him.     He awoke still screaming....     A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind.     She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard?     She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You      were     looking for him, weren't you?     Who is he?     She sat on the chair beside him.     My husband, she said softly.     He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me?     We need all the good men we can get.     Where is he?     She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him.     Why aren't you with him now?     He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate?     He told her the tales he'd heard.  <doc-sep></s>","Ben becomes an orphan when he is just 4 years old. The first person he finds that he can trust and look up to is Charlie Taggart, who also happens to be a spaceman. From this point forward, Ben’s life revolves around reaching his dream of going to the stars. When he sits in his best friend Mickey’s childhood bedroom, he realizes that he never got to experience a “normal” childhood, and this probably impacted his life’s goals. The bedroom contains trophies, books, videos, and other treasures from typical childhoods. Ben sees that his life, filled with dorms, rules, and routines, completely lacked a warmth that he would have experienced if he had grown up with parents who loved him. All he had to rely on were his dreams for his future. He never got to experience the little moments of pleasure and togetherness that families have. Ben put all of his energy into becoming a spaceman because it would make him special, and it was something supremely important to work towards. He has no idea who he would be if his parents hadn’t died. "
"<s>Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted.     One morning I thought,      Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much?       All day the thought lay in my mind like fire.     That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife.     You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed.     Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher?     Can't a spaceman marry, too?     Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for      maybe     two months,      maybe     twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what?     Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach.     Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on?     Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes.     Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the      Cyclops     . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas—     I know, Laura. Don't say it.     You had to finish. It was a monster.     That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep.       You've got to decide now     , I told myself.      You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice.       The teaching job was still open. The spot on the      Odyssey     was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto.       You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now.         Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book.       I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the      Odyssey     where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal.     That's what he'd say.     And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always.     Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do?  <doc-sep>And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent.     It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this.     I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words.     And among the things, Laura, I found a ring.     A wedding ring.     In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose.     Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream.     He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now.     Do you know      why     he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth?     It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children.     You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be      sure     until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think,      I might have gone there; I could have been the first     ?     We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways?     Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it.     Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson.     Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal.     Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura.     I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours.   <doc-sep>I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework.     Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself.     At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot.     That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all.     Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands.     We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny.     He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then.     But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family?     I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson.     You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster.     There was silence.     You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here.     You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura?     You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that.     I could never hate you.     It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it.     One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really.     I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet?     Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up?     I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up      what     ?     Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew.     All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path.     Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars.     Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before.       You can go into space     , I thought,      and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home.         Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust.       I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben.     It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense.  <doc-sep></s>","When Ben meets Laura, Mickey’s sister, at his spaceman graduation, he feels an instant connection with her. He enjoys talking to her and wants to learn everything there is to know about her. Although he’s happy to see Charlie Taggart, the closest thing he has to a family member, he chooses spending time with Laura and her family over spending time with Charlie alone. He can’t help feeling drawn to her. At first, Ben is completely oblivious to the feelings that Laura has for him, but after a walk under the stars together, he sees that she also sees a future with him. He has never before considered living on earth, getting married, owning a house, and settling for a “boring” life, but after she suggests that visiting the stars might just be like her trip to England, he wonders if she’s right. Maybe he has hyped up space travel so much and it will end up being a disappointment. Maybe Mickey is onto something, and sacrificing a normal life on earth where living to old age is expected is not a choice he should give up so easily. Ben desperately wants to be with Laura. He loves her just as much as he loves the stars. He spends forty incredible days with the woman of his dreams, but in the end, it’s not enough to convince him to give up his lifelong dream of being a spaceman. Sure, he’s uncomfortable with the amount of pressure that’s put on him, and he recognizes that he will be risking his life every single day, but he can see that Charlie does not regret giving up the quiet homelife for the incredible adventures that await in space. Ben wants to be the first man to visit a planet or find a helpful mineral or create a useful colony, and his love for Laura cannot change his dreams."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   Birds of a Feather     By ROBERT SILVERBERG     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine November 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo       was no problem—they battled for the honor—but       now I had to fight like a wildcat to       keep a display from making a monkey of me!        It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease.     My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge.     Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin.     The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go.     Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this:       Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours!    <doc-sep>There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence.     Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you?     I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to.     Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell.     The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers.     My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon.     You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play!     Several other loud voices started at the same time.     Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!     Yeah, and only when you were dealer!     The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned.     Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked!     The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight....     His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red.  <doc-sep></s>","Sometime after the year 2903, the narrator of the story, Mr. Corrigan, is having a recruiting day on the planet of Ghryne, which he privately calls MacTavish IV. Mr. Corrigan owns a popular zoo on Earth called the Corrigan Institute - the only place where humans can see other species of the universe. He recruits alien life forms to exhibit at the zoo, and relatively quickly signs eleven new specimens onto his current 690 that are under contract at the institute on earth. This is a viable business because the World Congress declared Earth off-bounds to aliens in 2903, and the only way aliens can now go to Earth is as exhibits in this zoo.Aliens make great sacrifices to come interview with Mr. Corrigan, as it seems he offers them a good deal. Those under contract are required to remain on exhibit for less than one-third of each day and get paid $50 Galactic a week, with expenses and transportation included. He interviews many different creatures through the day, with some being noteworthy and some not as much, being ushered away quickly by Mr. Corrigan’s assistant Stebbins. A Stortulian who claims his wife ran away to the Corrigan Institute, leaving him alone and unable to remarry due to his customs, pleads with Corrigan to let him go to Earth or at the very least to send her back. Mr. Corrigan is slightly frazzled by the story, but ultimately asks the Stortulian to leave, feeling sad and that he may commit suicide upon leaving and losing hope for his wife to return.Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV, was another notable interview. He stormed in and demanded to be signed to contract - and Mr. Corrigan preferred to make his own decisions. Herald felt insulted that the only four Kallerians at the institute were from the Clan Verdrokh, with no representation at all from his Clan Gursdrinn. Corrigan insisted he was unable to take another Kallerian, and apologized for insulting Clan Gursdrinn. This was enough to de-escalate physical violence, but Heraal was not pleased, and had to be escorted out of the room by Auchinleck and Ludlow who were summoned when Corrigan pushed a panic button under his desk.In a surprise twist from what Corrigan had expected - the Stortulian to kill himself, and for Heraal to try to kill him - the opposite happens. Heraal storms in and stabs himself with his own sword, killing him instantly. The Stortulian returns and attempts to murder Mr. Corrigan, who is narrowly saved by being tackled by Gorb. The Ghrynian cops attempt to place a $100,000 fine on Corrigan for causing the death of a being (Heraal, who killed himself after being refused a contract). Gorb offers to get Corrigan out of the situation for $5000 and a contract to the institute, which is accepted."
"<s>Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe.     The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir.     Send him, her or it in.     The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth.       His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan?     That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about—     I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world.     Your name?     Lawrence R. Fitzgerald.     I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please?     Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond.     Of course, that's not the name you were born with.     The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see.  <doc-sep>   Birds of a Feather     By ROBERT SILVERBERG     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine November 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo       was no problem—they battled for the honor—but       now I had to fight like a wildcat to       keep a display from making a monkey of me!        It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease.     My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge.     Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin.     The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go.     Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this:       Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours!    <doc-sep>There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence.     Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you?     I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to.     Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell.     The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers.     My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon.     You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play!     Several other loud voices started at the same time.     Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!     Yeah, and only when you were dealer!     The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned.     Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked!     The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight....     His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red.  <doc-sep></s>","Lawrence Raymond Fitzgerald is a being of Regulus II, who is a self-procclaimed Terrophile, who changed his name to a famous human’s which pleases Mr. Corrigan.Mr. Fitzgerald had a very deep voice, and was a yellow-green spherical shape the size of a basketball, with two double-kneed legs and five double-elbowed arms. He had size eyes, one with no eyelid right at the top of his head, and a mouth with no teeth.He was fortunate to be in-demand for the zoo - Mr. Corrigan saying that he needed a Regulan - and is signed extremely quickly onto contract with Mr. Corrigan during his interview. He’ll be paid $50 Galactic per week on Earth, which is very pleasing for him."
"<s>I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh.     Funny, I said.     What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian.     These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled      himself     , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job.     Don't mention it, Gorb said.     I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws?     The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of—     —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact.     Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone.     Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.     Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can.     You? I said.     I can get you out of this cheap.           How     cheap?     Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it?     I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition.     Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing.     Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose?  <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity.     I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job.     Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am.     I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus?     No. And it's not a circus. It's—     A scientific institute. I stand corrected.     There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well?     I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech.     Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb.     He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And—     I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated.     All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll—           Good-by, Mr. Gorb!          He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance.     He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job!     But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome.     I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands.  <doc-sep>About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again.     Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract.     I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in.     How did      you     get in here? I demanded.     Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet?     Get out before I have you thrown out.     Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I      am     Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff.     I don't care      what     your story is! Get out or—     —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside      is     . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly?     I scowled at him. Too damn many.     You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan.     I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of      those     either. Now will you scram or—     The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt.     Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but—     Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn!  <doc-sep></s>","Ildwar Gorb is a human-looking alien of the planet Wazzenazz XIII in the Crab Nebula. He claims to have never been within “a dozen parsecs of Earth,” but to look so human-like due to an evolutionary fluke. As he is interviewing with Mr. Corrigan, he says he is not actually speaking, but is a telepathic that communicates in symbols that are translated into the colloquial speech of the person he is interacting with.He appeals to Mr. Corrigan to be exhibited as a specimen, but when Corrigan in unconvinced Gorb isn’t just a regular human trying to fool him, he also tries to appeal to him to hire him as a member of his human staff. This is also a no, since Mr. Corrigan would be breaking the law to do so if he was an alien.Gorb throws himself at Mr. Corrigan to tackle him and save his life from a murder attempt by the Stortulian. This gesture buys him enough goodwill for Corrigan to accept his offer to get him out of the trouble with the Ghrynian cops. He will do the job for $5000 and a contract to the Corrigan Institute - ultimately getting him what he wanted in the first place."
"<s>   Birds of a Feather     By ROBERT SILVERBERG     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine November 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo       was no problem—they battled for the honor—but       now I had to fight like a wildcat to       keep a display from making a monkey of me!        It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease.     My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge.     Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin.     The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go.     Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this:       Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours!    <doc-sep>Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe.     The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir.     Send him, her or it in.     The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth.       His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan?     That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about—     I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world.     Your name?     Lawrence R. Fitzgerald.     I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please?     Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond.     Of course, that's not the name you were born with.     The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see.  <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity.     I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job.     Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am.     I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus?     No. And it's not a circus. It's—     A scientific institute. I stand corrected.     There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well?     I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech.     Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb.     He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And—     I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated.     All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll—           Good-by, Mr. Gorb!          He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance.     He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job!     But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome.     I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands.  <doc-sep></s>","Mr. Corrigan was an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system prior to the year 2903, when the World Congress made it illegal for aliens to travel to the planet Earth. He seized a business opportunity to open Corrigan’s Institute and collect aliens as scientific specimens, charging humans money to see them on Earth. This turned out to be a very lucrative business, and the zoo was very popular.Mr. Corrigan tries to be fair to those he is interviewing, but is having an exceptionally hard day that is straining his patience. He does not allow himself to be swayed or pushed around by the sad stories (the Stortulian) or the demands (Heraal) of those in the interviews. He is resolved in his assumptions, and is truly shocked when the outcome of who would commit suicide and who would attempt to kill him is revealed."
"<s>   Birds of a Feather     By ROBERT SILVERBERG     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine November 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo       was no problem—they battled for the honor—but       now I had to fight like a wildcat to       keep a display from making a monkey of me!        It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease.     My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge.     Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin.     The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go.     Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this:       Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours!    <doc-sep>There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence.     Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you?     I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to.     Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell.     The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers.     My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon.     You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play!     Several other loud voices started at the same time.     Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!     Yeah, and only when you were dealer!     The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned.     Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked!     The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight....     His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red.  <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously.     Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety.     A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief.     Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house.     The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief.     Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats.     Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on.     Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands.     To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler.     You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan.     It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters.     Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off!     The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough.     You mock me, pale one. I warn you—     Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred.     Get out of the car!     Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared.     Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said.     I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well!     When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune.     The bearded man's face grew purple.     Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car.     Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to.     The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell.     The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh.     That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs.     You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying?     Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right.     These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition.     Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place during a single day in Mr. Corrigan’s rented office on the planet Ghryne some time after the year 2903. His office has a desk, chairs for his interviewees to sit in, and a sign advertising that extraterrestrials are wanted. There is a waiting room outside the office, and applicants are buzzed in by Corrigan’s assistant.On this planet, there is a strong desire for aliens to want to go on exhibit on Earth. Mr. Corrigan profits from having them on display, and is willing to go through long and stressful interview days to hand select his specimens. His desire is to have at least 500 different alien races in his collection.There is frequent reference to the location of the Corrigan Institute on Earth, though it is never visited in the story. The Institute is very popular with humans, and has 690 specimens, representing 298 different types of aliens."
"<s>   A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  <doc-sep></s>","Ben Curtis enters a dark gin mill followed by the dead man and a boy offers him a wench. Ben denies and follows to a table past drinking men from different planets and a policeman, whose presence makes Ben anxious. He is followed by the dead man everywhere and has to find some red-bearded man to escape the dead man. A week ago Ben met a drunk man Cobb in a bar and they had a fight which led to Cobb's death by accident. Ben ran and didn't give in not to end his space career. He starts searching for the red-bearded man on Venus who led a group of renegade spacemen. In the gin mill Ben gets hopeless and is surrounded by the police, he runs again. He is paralyzed by the police but a woman who doesn't have an antidote helps him escape. He wakes up and can't talk, the woman massages him and looks after. When Ben gains consciousness he asks questions, he is not in Hoover city any longer but still on Venus. Turns out the woman knows a lot about her patient and saved him with a use of money. She doesn't know if he is to walk again but he will live. Ben learns the dead man had a family and they haunt him in nightmares. He also sees a photo of a red-bearded man, and it turns out the woman is his wife and they need an astrogator. She tells about her husband, his team and goal. Ben understands he won't be let go if he denies the job. "
"<s>   A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins in the Blast Inn, a dim gin mill with a sense of evil. The huge room is obscure with smoke and full of people from different planets drinking and smoking. Ben's table is in the shadows far away, a lonely Martian orchestra is playing. Then the story goes to one week ago, a bar on Earth and a fight. There was a chase then through the rocket front alleys with a thousand stars above. Ben fled to Venus. In the gin mill's shadow, the light is suddenly on, the orchestra leaves and Ben is surrendered to the police. He runs and wakes up in a place he can't see. He is with a woman who looks after him, the room is small with a small window with infinite whiteness outside. He was moved to a different city on Venus. Soon, there turns out to be a photo of a red-bearded man in the room. Nightmares and memories haunt Ben in this room. "
"<s>   A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  <doc-sep></s>","The man is the leader of renegade spacemen who operate from the Solar System's frontiers and are not outlaws. The man is almost a myth. Right now the man is exploring new parts of space and is building a new base. The team is huge and the base has moved from Venus towards the Pole for a while, planning to move to an asteroid later. Half the team are wanted but their livings are still honest. The man is banned from Earth and brings cargo to the frontiers and the authorities close their eyes. They want to go further than the System itself and need a good astrogator like Ben out there."
"<s>   A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  <doc-sep></s>",Ben lost his parents at four in a a crash in space and has wanted to be a spaceman ever since. All his life he has been passionate about space. He graduated from an academy as an astrogation major and was a great student. After one month he signed aboard the ship called Odyssey. The bar fight occurred when he was celebrating his successful flight and he was proud of his uniform yet considering it a key for everything - the idea he had for a long time before. 
"<s>   A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  <doc-sep>Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  <doc-sep></s>","Ben is haunted with the image of a dead man. In a bar a man, Cobb, picked a fight with Ben claiming that spacemen suck. Ben soon surrendered to his anger and hit the man, who died by accident. Now Ben is followed everywhere by the scary rage of the dead man with blood in his mouth. Ben is even more upset when he learns that Cobb had a wife and two kids. The whole family haunts Ben in nightmares. He is constantly scared of being found as well and deprived of being a spaceman. "
"<s>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter.     His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted.     On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.     He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.     The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation.     Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.     Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.     What do you mean?     They say some home-office relative is coming in on the      Javelin     .     What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.     Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!     Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.     She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer.     Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty.     Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking,      Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried?       They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?     It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip.  <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    <doc-sep>   TOLLIVER'S ORBIT     was slow—but it wasn't boring. And     it would get you there—as long as     you weren't going anywhere anyhow!     By H. B. FYFE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.     I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.     The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant.     Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates.     You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded.     Now,      listen     ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them.      They     know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side?     Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.     You just don't listen to      me     , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit.     Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.     Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount?     Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye.     All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!     You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?     Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls      that     hazardous duty!     Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.     He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.       Looks like a little vacation     , he thought, unperturbed.      He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk.    <doc-sep></s>","The story begins as Johnny Tolliver argues with Jeffers, the manager of Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways, about how he doesn’t want to be involved with whatever he is doing. This makes Jeffers angry, knowing that he cannot fire Tolliver, he decides to make Tolliver’s job extremely boring. Thus, for the next few days, he simply hang around the garage, with nothing to do. Then on Friday, he gets assigned to take the creeper outside. He picks Betty up, where he told her about the dangers of Ganymede such as the volcanic puffballs and the mountain slides, he explains his high pay for driving unarmored tractor by mentioning that if he survives the six month, he will retire. However, Tolliver understand that this is completely a lie. After they go to see Jeffers, Betty states that she will not work with them, and them fires Jeffers. Jeffers order his men to lock Betty and Tolliver up. After Tolliver wakes up, they decided to escape. Betty told Tolliver about how she was able to figure out that there’s something wrong – his extremely high paycheck. After crawling through the hole by bending plastic, they finds spacesuits in the storeroom. Finally, they are able to escape by taking off on an economy orbit for Earth. After contacting with Space Patrol, Tolliver finds it odd when he says “Miss Koslow.” Questioning Betty, she admits that she works for a private investigating firm. Then, in the end, Tolliver is going to cut the fuel flow to see if Betty will suspect anything, since they are just orbiting Ganymede. "
"<s>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter.     His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted.     On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.     He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.     The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation.     Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.     Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.     What do you mean?     They say some home-office relative is coming in on the      Javelin     .     What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.     Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!     Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.     She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer.     Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty.     Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking,      Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried?       They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?     It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip.  <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    <doc-sep>It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship.     There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed.     That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble.     It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again.     In fact, we      have     to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty.     He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.     It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.       In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.     Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff.     Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV!     That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials!     He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long.     I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back!     He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.     In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.     That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction?     Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check      everything     . We'll worry about that after we make your call.     Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket.     Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact.     It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform.     Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously.     That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me.     Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all.     When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman.  <doc-sep></s>","Betty first disguises as the president’s daughter. She is five feet four, and her hair was a shade too blonde; she has blue eyes and is wearing gray slacks with a heavy sweater. She comes to Ganymedan to learn about traffic routing as well as business management of local branches. Betty is shocked by the exaggerated description that Tolliver gives on the tractor about how dangerous Ganymedan is. Once she arrives in the office, she fires Jeffers stating that she knows that he has been doing. Making Jeffers very angry, he locks her along with Tolliver into the empty office. There, Betty follows Tolliver to escape to the control room. Once she is told that they will take off, she refuses. But, in order to escape, Tolliver takes off the ship into an economy orbit for Earth anyway. Betty finally makes the microphone call to Space Patrol, telling them to capture Jeffers. From the way that the other side of the phone reacted to Tolliver calling Betty Miss Koslow, Tolliver realizes that something’s off. Then Betty tells him that she actually works for a private investigating firm, and her name is Betty Hanlon. Betty "
"<s>   TOLLIVER'S ORBIT     was slow—but it wasn't boring. And     it would get you there—as long as     you weren't going anywhere anyhow!     By H. B. FYFE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.     I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.     The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant.     Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates.     You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded.     Now,      listen     ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them.      They     know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side?     Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.     You just don't listen to      me     , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit.     Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.     Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount?     Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye.     All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!     You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?     Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls      that     hazardous duty!     Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.     He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.       Looks like a little vacation     , he thought, unperturbed.      He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk.    <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    <doc-sep>Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking.     Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty.     The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile.     Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?     Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope.     Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport.     Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered.     He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.     Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it.     Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.     Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have      some     authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me.     You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely.     Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired!     The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown.     Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough.     No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink!     Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off.     Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask.     Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate.     In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor.     I      told     you no questions! bawled Jeffers.     The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist.  <doc-sep></s>","Jeffers is the manager of the Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways. He is operating something sneaky all through the colony. When he tries to make Tolliver join him, he refuses. But Jeffers cannot legally fire him, thus he decides to make him do some very boring works as a driver of airtight tractor, which is used between the dome city and the spaceport. Then after learning that Betty knows about what he is doing and wants to fire him, he is very shocked. He orders three men to lock Betty and Tolliver up. Later, Jeffers and his partners goes to the headquarters building, plotting their next moves. Tolliver assumes that Jeffers has already warned the garage and airlocks about the two, so that they cannot escape. Finally, when Betty reaches Space Patrol through the microphone, she told them to arrest Jeffers. "
"<s>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter.     His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted.     On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.     He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.     The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation.     Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.     Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.     What do you mean?     They say some home-office relative is coming in on the      Javelin     .     What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.     Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!     Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.     She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer.     Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty.     Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking,      Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried?       They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?     It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip.  <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    <doc-sep>   TOLLIVER'S ORBIT     was slow—but it wasn't boring. And     it would get you there—as long as     you weren't going anywhere anyhow!     By H. B. FYFE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.     I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.     The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant.     Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates.     You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded.     Now,      listen     ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them.      They     know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side?     Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.     You just don't listen to      me     , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit.     Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.     Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount?     Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye.     All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!     You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?     Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls      that     hazardous duty!     Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.     He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.       Looks like a little vacation     , he thought, unperturbed.      He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk.    <doc-sep></s>","Firstly, Tolliver takes Betty towards Jeffers’ office on a tractor since it can go through the frozen surface of Ganymede. Then later, when Betty and Tolliver were put in the empty office, Tolliver uses a lighter to light up the mess of discarded records so that the plastic can be bent. Later, inside the storage room, Tolliver finds some spacesuits for the two to wear. Then finally, when they gets to the control room, they gets onto the acceleration seat. Using the ship, the two fly into the economy orbit for Earth in order to escape. In the end, Betty uses the scanner and microphone to make a call to the Space Patrol so that they will arrest Jeffers. "
"<s>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter.     His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted.     On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.     He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.     The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation.     Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.     Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.     What do you mean?     They say some home-office relative is coming in on the      Javelin     .     What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.     Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!     Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.     She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer.     Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty.     Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking,      Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried?       They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?     It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip.  <doc-sep>For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    <doc-sep>   TOLLIVER'S ORBIT     was slow—but it wasn't boring. And     it would get you there—as long as     you weren't going anywhere anyhow!     By H. B. FYFE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.     I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.     The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant.     Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates.     You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded.     Now,      listen     ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them.      They     know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side?     Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.     You just don't listen to      me     , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit.     Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.     Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount?     Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye.     All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!     You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?     Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls      that     hazardous duty!     Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.     He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.       Looks like a little vacation     , he thought, unperturbed.      He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk.    <doc-sep></s>","First, the story starts inside Jeffers’ office where the two argues. From the office window, the transparent domes of Ganymede’s can be seen. There is also a chair and a door which is the exit from the room. Then at the empty office next to the warehouse building, Tolliver wakes up. There is an old table and half a dozen plastic crates in the empty office. The plastic crates contain a mess of discarded records. There is also a doorway. The doorway is plastic and can be bended when applied heat. Outside of the room, there’s a storeroom, which has spacesuits inside them. Many of the spacesuits are unpacked while some are standing ready for emergencies. The control room has an acceleration seat. There is a board that has the condition of the ship. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time.     Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime.     Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself.     Umm.     Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't      have     tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and—     Go to those      head-shrinkers     ?     Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way.     Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you      make     me go?     Violation of Civil Rights.     Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.     How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done.     In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself!     He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room.     Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime!     Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it:      John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St.       When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks.     Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.  <doc-sep>Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID.     Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again      prevented     crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes      by     punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights.     Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared.     When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class.     You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means?     Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern.     So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell '      Police!     ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever      did     prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous.     Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl—     Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you.     During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and—     Lay off!  <doc-sep></s>","Joe is at a bar and hands a girl $50 to complete a task for him without telling her what it is yet. He makes small talk to the girl telling her that he is trying to get drunk but he can’t because his drinks are watered down by the CPA robot bartenders. Joe informs the girl that he is assigned a DCT (Dangerous Criminal Tendencies) designation on his CPA ID card. Joe leads the girl to an alley to move his plan into motion. His plan is for her to say that he attempted to rape her because attempted rape is a crime under CPA rules. The girl states that she does not want to go along with that plan because she will lose her rank in the Women’s Self-Defense Association, which is a branch of the CPA. Joe still persists and tries to make her scream. The girl in turn successfully defends herself against him and causes his head to strike the hard concrete floor. He loses consciousness of her actions. Joe wakes up in the police commissioner’s office. Joe’s plan does not work because the CPA had microphones monitoring the alley so they already know that the plan was not real. Joe then proceeds to confess to a conspiracy when presented with the evidence the CPA has gathered. As a result of these actions, Joe’s new designation on his CPA ID card has the words ‘Dangerous Criminal Tendencies’ in all caps and in a large, red font printed on his card. It also added that he was a DCT First Class owner. Hendricks lectures Joe about his new designation, but Joe does not care to hear him. The commissioner tries to convince Joe to leave New York or to use the free psychology service. Hendricks explains that he cannot think of a way to help Joe without committing a crime himself. In an unexpected move, Hendricks offers Joe a seemingly available victim and their address. Joe memorizes the available information and goes to the address to commit a crime. Joe enters the apartment and takes a watch. He then shouts outside a window that there is a thief. Joe proceeds to run down to the street and is caught by a police helicopter and handcuffed. Joe eventually wakes up after months of treatment in a hospital and is picked up by Hendricks. He goes through the large crowd waiting to meet him upon exiting the hospital and has an uneasy feeling about the interactions. He is confused by the reaction of the crowd. Hendrick says that it was a fake apartment that Joe went to and is one that the police use for special cases like his when a person refuses to find a solution. Joe becomes upset because he realizes that he has become a prisoner in his own body because of the treatment from the CPA and he has great contempt for the results. "
"<s>Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID.     Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again      prevented     crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes      by     punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights.     Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared.     When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class.     You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means?     Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern.     So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell '      Police!     ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever      did     prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous.     Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl—     Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you.     During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and—     Lay off!  <doc-sep>The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley.     She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt.     He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea?     Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you.     The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly.     The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted?     What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong.     You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA!     Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques.     The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of—     Do I have to      make     you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl.     —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey!      Stop it!          Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air.       The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him.  <doc-sep>When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake.     Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator.     If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards.     Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years.     Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human.     The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain.     And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible.  <doc-sep></s>","The CPA is meant to prevent crime and not punish crime. It stands for Crime Prevention Association. The CPA organization has made crime nearly impossible through various methods of surveillance and intelligence gathering. The crime was not punished by the CPA but addressed by sending the person to a hospital for expensive treatment to correct and remove the deviance from the person’s mind. A CPA ID card is required to be carried by everyone and when asked, a person has to present the ID card. Being drunk is illegal according to the rules of the CPA. "
"<s>The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be.     Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say,      Work! Work!     Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers.     But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might      want     to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration....     Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch.     And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head,      Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense     .     He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered,      Unlawful to curse     .     He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice,      Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure     .     See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong.  <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time.     Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime.     Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself.     Umm.     Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't      have     tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and—     Go to those      head-shrinkers     ?     Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way.     Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you      make     me go?     Violation of Civil Rights.     Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.     How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done.     In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself!     He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room.     Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime!     Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it:      John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St.       When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks.     Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.  <doc-sep>Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID.     Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again      prevented     crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes      by     punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights.     Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared.     When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class.     You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means?     Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern.     So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell '      Police!     ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever      did     prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous.     Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl—     Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you.     During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and—     Lay off!  <doc-sep></s>","Joe hires the girl because he wants to commit a crime and be caught by the CPA. He reasons that if he commits a crime and is caught he will be treated and then labelled as an “Ex” criminal. This designation would allow him to get whatever job he desired, an actual good job. An “Ex” criminal is treated as a type of hero because they are viewed as cured and incapable of ever committing a crime again, thus they are the most trustworthy person in society. Joe hires the girl to use her to pretend that he tried to rape her. "
"<s>When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request.     I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT.     And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger—     On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor.     Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!     The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you?     He smiled at her admiration. It      was     something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts.     No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals.     The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons.     And, ironically, a man who      did     commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs.     Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes.     Okay. Let's go.  <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen.     The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events.     It is thought—     The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice.     The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir?  <doc-sep>Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped.     And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak!     Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor.     And it doesn't end      there     , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and—     Okay, goddam it!      Stop it!          Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette.     I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to      hate     them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or—     Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously.       Favor     , did you say? The day youdo      me     a favor—     Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time.     I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job.  <doc-sep></s>","DCT affects a lot of a person’s social life and work abilities. To inquire about a job opening, a person has to show their ID. Establishments are not likely to hire a person with a DCT designation unless it is for a garbage truck job, a street-cleaner positioner, or other less desirable work options. They do not leave a person in a socially favorable view as people judge those with DCT designation poorly. A DCT First Class designation means that the person’s case will be made public. People are interested in crime because it is a complete rarity in current society. The commissioner says that people will follow him wherever he goes and just watches him because they want to be the first one to call for the police when he commits a crime. A person with a first class designation will not have any privacy when out and about. "
"<s>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time.     Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime.     Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself.     Umm.     Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't      have     tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and—     Go to those      head-shrinkers     ?     Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way.     Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you      make     me go?     Violation of Civil Rights.     Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.     How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done.     In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself!     He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room.     Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime!     Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it:      John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St.       When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks.     Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.  <doc-sep>I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever?     Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image.     As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me?     Coming with you? I repeated. Where?     The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes....     Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible!   <doc-sep>It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less.     And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH.     It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things.     Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine.     The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was      new     . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation.     When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day.     Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it.  <doc-sep></s>","This story takes place in New York City. It begins in a bar with Joe drinking and attempting to get drunk on watered-down alcohol. A girl comes up to him to talk about what he is hiring her to do. The two leave the bar and go down a hall into an alleyway where Joe tries to enact his plan of fake committing a crime. When Joe wakes up after losing consciousness, he is in the police commissioner’s office. When Joe leaves the commissioner’s office, he goes to the subway and heads to John Gralewski’s apartment on Orange St. The apartment has a new wall that is clean compared to other walls caked with dirt and stains. He notices that the building is old with wide hallways. After Joe is caught by the police, he is taken to the hospital for his treatment that lasts months. When Joe wakes up, he sees that there is a crowd of people outside of the hospital waiting to meet him. Joe leaves the hospital in a car with Hendricks but becomes so upset that he eventually exits the car and stands on the sidewalk where he comes to his realization of his imprisonment in his own body. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>   THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  <doc-sep></s>","Councillor Magnan dispatches Retief on a mission to deliver information to Jorgensen’s Worlds, notifying them that the aliens, the Soettis, are planning to attack them and to deliver a battle plan and the instructions for converting their anti-acceleration field into a powerful weapon to defend themselves. As a precaution, Retief checks out a needler to take with him. At the airport, he is told that the flight to Jorgensen’s World is fully booked and that he should try again in a couple of weeks; by then, the alien invasion will be over. Under pressure, the clerk tells Retief that the ship is booked for a VIP, and all tourist reservations are canceled. Retief goes to the gate for the flight and punches the ticket taker, forcing his way onto the airship. 	Retief makes his way to a room full of expensive luggage and is discovered by Mr. Tony, the man who has claimed the room. When Mr. Tony’s henchmen try to force Retief out of the room, he hefts a large trunk at them and then tosses all the luggage into the hallway. Next, the Captain appears and tries to throw Retief off the ship, but Retief claims the right of the passage under Section Three, Paragraph One of the Uniform Code. The henchmen and the Captain give up for now.	At dinner, the wait staff ignore Retief, but the chef, Chip, provides him with an excellent meal. Chip dislikes the Captain and Mr. Tony, but he knows they won’t replace him because of his excellent culinary skills. Chip befriends Retief and explains the situation to him. He doesn’t know exactly what the Captain and Mr. Tony are up to, but they make frequent trips to Jorgensen’s Worlds and cut off all tourist travel to the planet. They travel to Jorgensen’s Worlds every few weeks but never pick up any cargo. They allow the Soettis, the aliens who are planning an attack on the Worlds, to board the ships and inspect them because the Soettis are in control of the travel lanes to the planet.	When Skaw, a Soetti, demands Retief’s travel papers, Retief attacks him and kills him. The Captain is terrified that the Soettis will kill all of them, and Retief urges him to show some backbone. Retief knows the Soettis won’t make a big deal of the death because they don’t want to draw attention to themselves on the eve of their launch against the Worlds. 	Later, Chip informs Retief that the Captain has ordered a change of course to skip Jorgensen’s Worlds and travel on to Alabaster. Retief must reach the Jorgensen’s population ASAP with news of the impending alien attack, so he goes to the Captain’s cabin, catching him off guard, and makes him change the orders for the crew, keeping the ship on track to the Worlds. To prevent the Captain from changing the order, Retief stays with him in his cabin and uses the threat of his needler as a deterrent."
"<s>   THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  <doc-sep>All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder?     Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.     First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation.     Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up.     Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.     This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building.     I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me.     Magnan started to shake his head.     Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—     I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though.     Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always.     When does this attack happen?     Less than four weeks.     That doesn't leave me much time.     I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way.     That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?     Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced.     This antiac conversion; how long does it take?     A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort.     Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside.     Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books.     You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid.     Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.     The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned.     I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name.     You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps.     They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman.     You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers.     You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there?     Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it?     Just a feeling I've got.     Please yourself.     Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that.      II     Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye.     Retief glanced at him.     The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor.     Was there something? he said.     Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule?     The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks.     What time does it leave?     I don't think—     Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out?     The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.     If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way.     The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed.     Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added.     Retief looked at him.     Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext—     Which gate? Retief said.     For ... ah...?     For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said.     Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But—     Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading      To Gates 16-30     .     Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him.  <doc-sep>The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint.     I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call.     Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor.     Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space.     Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking.     The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed.     He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy.     They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over.     They got no more emotions than a blue crab—     You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now.     What secret? I—     Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret.     Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work.     He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall.     Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later.     You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket.     You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems.     They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts.     They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.     They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port.     Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.     Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you?     That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer.      IV     Retief awoke at a tap on his door.     It's me, Mister. Chip.     Come on in.     The chef entered the room, locking the door.     You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief.     You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?     That's right, Chip.     Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate.     Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.     Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?     He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun?     A 2mm needler. Why?     The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute.     Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.     Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin?  <doc-sep></s>","The Soettis are involved in some kind of illegal activity with the Captain and Mr. Tony. The Soettis, nicknamed Sweaties, by humans who dislike them, are an alien species who have been moving deep into the sector where the Jorgensen’s Worlds are located. The Soettis are unattractive creatures with skinny legs like a lobster’s and a big chest shaped somewhat like a turnip. They have rubbery heads, and you can see their pulse beating when they get upset. They have tiny arms with toothed pincers at the ends and threaten humans with them. These pincers are incredibly strong and can cut through steel. It has been learned that they are planning to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds by force, a move of open aggression against Terrestrial territory that cannot be overlooked. The headquarters where Retief works has obtained the Soetti War Plan from a defector of Terrestrials who have actually been providing advice to the Soettis, so the plan is for Retief to travel personally to Jorgensen’s Worlds to provide them with this information and also with the schematics that will enable them to convert their anti-acceleration field into a powerful weapon to protect the planets. Reaching the Jorgensen’s Worlds will be challenging because the Soettis are on patrol in the trade lanes where the airships travel to the Worlds. The Soettis look down on Terrestrials and try to assert themselves over them. The Soettis can speak English, so they can communicate with the Terrestrials.The Captain is afraid of the Soettis and worries that when Retief harms Skaw, the Soetties will kill all of the humans. Retief intends for Skaw to go back and tell the other Soettis that they can no longer enter the Terrestrials’ airships and search them. When Skaw dies, the Captain is certain they are done for, but Retief tells him to bluff and show guns when they return the body, and the Soettis will back down. Surprisingly, the Soettis don’t say anything about Skaw’s death, but Mr. Tony is furious. Retief thinks it is good to know that the Soettis are easy to kill."
"<s>   THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  <doc-sep>He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!     You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!     She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close.     After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed?     Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?     Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?   <doc-sep>All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder?     Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.     First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation.     Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up.     Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.     This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building.     I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me.     Magnan started to shake his head.     Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—     I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though.     Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always.     When does this attack happen?     Less than four weeks.     That doesn't leave me much time.     I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way.     That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?     Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced.     This antiac conversion; how long does it take?     A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort.     Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside.     Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books.     You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid.     Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.     The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned.     I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name.     You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps.     They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman.     You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers.     You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there?     Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it?     Just a feeling I've got.     Please yourself.     Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that.      II     Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye.     Retief glanced at him.     The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor.     Was there something? he said.     Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule?     The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks.     What time does it leave?     I don't think—     Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out?     The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.     If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way.     The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed.     Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added.     Retief looked at him.     Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext—     Which gate? Retief said.     For ... ah...?     For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said.     Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But—     Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading      To Gates 16-30     .     Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him.  <doc-sep></s>","Jorgensen’s Worlds are a group of four planets, or actually two double planets, and are located close to an unimportant star known as DRI-G 33987. These planets are freezing cold and are undeveloped and mostly populated with farmers and traders. They have a small amount of industry, just enough to support their merchant fleet. However, the governing body in this sector of space has received word that an alien race, the Soetti, has plans to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds. The governing body isn’t going to sit by and let the aliens take over Terrestrial-occupied territory. Retief is on a mission to deliver information to Jorgensen’s Worlds that will enable them to defend themselves from the alien attack, providing them with the Soettis War Plan, a battle plan for the planets, and the schematics that will enable them, in a matter of minutes, to convert their anti-acceleration fields into a powerful weapon. Reaching Jorgensen’s Worlds will be challenging because the Soetti are patroling the trade lanes to the planet. Their successful defense against the Soetti hinges on Retief’s reaching the planets in time for them to make the conversions before the aliens' attack."
"<s>II     The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing ChipWarren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway,gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, forsuddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveledand fired.     The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek,scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squanderin vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through thedoorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the realmurderer, and in that way clear himself....     But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleywaybehind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chipknew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get outof here. But quick!     It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed thescarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuerscould no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to thespaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the      Chickadee     .     Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in theelectro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, Salvation, look what the catdrug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life toomuch for you?     Never mind that now! panted Chip. Is this tin can ready to roll?Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs—     Palmer said anxiously, Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quitefinished plating the hull, Chip!     Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very fewminutes—      Ahh!     There he goes now! Chip had gone to the      perilens     themoment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which hehad expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from itscradle. Hurry, Syd!     There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know      who     went      where     ; he was bursting with curiosity about the importantbusiness which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; hiskeen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. Buthe was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia.     O.Q., he snapped. It's your pigeon!     And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, thescuff of equipment being disengaged from the      Chickadee's     hull, thethin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warrenquizzically.     It smells, he ventured gently, like trouble.     It is trouble, Chip told him. Plenty trouble!     In that case— said the old man mildly—I guess I'd better get therotor stripped for action. He stepped to the gunnery turret, droppedthe fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. 'Be ye men ofpeace,' he intoned, 'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!'Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah!     Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom.     All set, Chip! Lift gravs!     Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the      Chickadee     rocketed into space on a pillar of flame.  <doc-sep>III     From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery.     —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out—     Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the      Chickadee     , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun....     Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head.     My—my companions? he demanded weakly.     The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt.     Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time!     Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly.     What, he stormed, is the meaning of this?     The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth.     Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight!     Talk?     Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us.     Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you      are     theLorelei's men?     The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from?     And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man      did     holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed.     And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly.     Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you!  <doc-sep>   THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  <doc-sep></s>","Chip is the chef on the airship that is traveling to Jorgensen’s Worlds. His role as chef enables him to have contact with the Captain, crew, and passengers, which makes him extremely valuable to Retief. In addition, he likes Retief since he stands up to Mr. Tony and the Captain, neither of whom Chip can stand. When the serving staff ignore Retief, Chip serves Retief and later continues serving him meals in his room. When Retief is threatened by one of Mr. Tony’s goons wielding a knife, Chip passes a knife from the kitchen to Retief to defend himself. Most importantly, Chip shares his wealth of knowledge with Retief and assists him. Chip informs Retief that Mr. Tony and the Captain are involved in some kind of crooked business deal with each other, adding that there haven’t been any tourist to Jorgensen’s Worlds for the last six to eight months. He also tells Retief about the Soettis boarding the ship and searching it. At the end of the story when Retief is holding the Captain in his cabin to prevent him from changing the orders and bypassing Jorgensen’s Worlds, Chip keeps an eye on what is going on with the rest of the passengers to report back to Retief. Without Chip’s help, Retief might not have been as successful in thwarting the Captain and Mr. Tony’s plan to bypass Jorgensen’s Worlds."
"<s>Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.     Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief.     Is this the joker? he grated.     The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure.     I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster.     When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce.     A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys.     Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.     Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped.     Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.     Don't try it, he said softly.     One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated.     Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?     That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck.     Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe.     You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes.     The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed.     —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?     Close the door as you leave, Retief said.     The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout.      III     Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.     At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way.     A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap.     Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?     Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun.     Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.     I see your point.     You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate.     Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter.     I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm.     You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you.     Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee?     Chip, you're a genius.     Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler.     Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.     Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.     As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.     The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.     You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick?     Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.     I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it.     The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began.     With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down.     Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.     You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough.     Mr. Tony found his voice.     Take him, Marbles! he growled.     The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.     Retief heard the panel open beside him.     Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill.     Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks.     Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster.     Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said.     Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced.     Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of—     Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater.     Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider.     Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long.     Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob.     He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.     The panel opened.     I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day.     How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said.     Sure, Mister. Anything else?     I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days.  <doc-sep>The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint.     I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call.     Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor.     Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space.     Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking.     The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed.     He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy.     They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over.     They got no more emotions than a blue crab—     You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now.     What secret? I—     Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret.     Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work.     He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall.     Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later.     You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket.     You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems.     They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts.     They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.     They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port.     Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.     Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you?     That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer.      IV     Retief awoke at a tap on his door.     It's me, Mister. Chip.     Come on in.     The chef entered the room, locking the door.     You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief.     You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?     That's right, Chip.     Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate.     Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.     Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?     He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun?     A 2mm needler. Why?     The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute.     Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.     Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin?  <doc-sep>Nagurski brought out a pipe. He would have a pipe, I decided.     No, not always. I was like you at first. Fresh from the cosmic energytest lab, suspicious of everything, trying to tell the old hands whatto do. But I learned that they are pretty smart boys; they know whatthey are doing. You can rely on them absolutely.     I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Let me tell      you     a thing,Nagurski. Your trust of these damn-fool spacemen is why you are nolonger a captain. You can't trust anything out here in space, much lesshuman nature. Even I know that much!     He was pained. If you don't trust the men, they won't trust you, Gav.     They don't have to trust me. All they have to do is      obey     me or, byJupiter, get frozen stiff and thawed out just in time for court-marshalback home. Listen, I continued earnestly, these men aren't going tothink of me—of      us     , the officers, as their leaders. As far as thecrew is concerned, Ordinary Spaceman Quade is the best man on thisship.     He      is     a good man, Nagurski said. You mustn't be jealous of hisstatus.     The dog growled. He must have sensed what I almost did to Nagurski.     Never mind that for now, I said wearily. What was your idea forgetting our exploration parties through this transphasia?     There's only one idea for that, said Quade, ducking his long headand stepping through the connecting hatch. With the Captain'spermission....     Go ahead, Quade, tell him, Nagurski invited.     There's only one way to wade through transphasia with anyreliability, Quade told me. You keep some kind of physical contactwith the spaceship. Parties are strung out on guide line, like we were,but the cable has to be run back and made fast to the hull.     How far can we run it back?     Quade shrugged. Miles.     How many?     We have three miles of cable. As long as you can feel, taste, see,smell or hear that rope anchoring you to home, you aren't lost.     Three miles isn't good enough. We don't have enough fuel to changesites that often. You can't use the drive in a gravitational field, youknow.     What else can we do, Captain? Nagurski asked puzzledly.     You've said that the spaceship is our only protection fromtransphasia. Is that it?     Quade gave a curt nod.     Then, I told them, we will have to start tearing apart this ship.  <doc-sep></s>","Mr. Tony is a tall, florid man with expensive clothes and a massive paunch. He is also used to getting his way. The Captain and Mr. Tony are involved in an illegal deal with the Soettis, so the two men are business associates, although they don’t much like each other. Together, they have cut off all tourism to Jorgensen’s Worlds for the past six to eight months; the airlines won’t provide any bookings for passengers; however, the Captain’s airship has at least a dozen empty rooms. Mr. Tony has several henchmen working for him who do his “dirty business” of roughhandling anyone who interferes with Mr. Tony’s business. Whatever their business is, it involves frequent trips to Jorgensen’s Worlds without taking any cargo there. Mr. Tony seems to hold power over the Captain.	The Captain is a thin, leathery-skinned man who wears white ducks, a blue turtleneck, and a peaked cap that he tilts rakishly over one eye. He isn’t a very strong person or leader. He tries to get Mr. Tony’s men to throw Retief off the ship, but they refuse to do so when Retief warns them not to try and when they realize he is the person who picked up Mr. Tony’s trunk and threw it. The Captain has ordered Retief to get off the ship but backs down when the men refuse to touch Retief. He apparently tells the wait staff in the restaurant to refuse service to Retief because they all ignore him. And when the Captain warns Mr. Tony’s henchmen not to shoot Retief on his airship because it could threaten his charter, one of them talks back and tells him he won’t need it for long. Retief has the distinct impression that Mr. Tony has something on the Captain that forces the Captain to cooperate with him and places him at a lower level than Mr. Tony.  "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   THE MADMAN FROM EARTH     BY KEITH LAUMER     You don't have to be crazy to be an earth     diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable—     You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'.     Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.     Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here—     You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude.     Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge.     Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister.     Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up.     Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature.     I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","Following the departure of Consul Whaffle, Retief has taken over as Consul for the Terrestrial States with the Terrestrial Consulate General on the planet Groac. His administrative assistant, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, wants him to attend Groacian cultural events, but Retief is more interested in addressing the nine-year-old mystery of the disappearance of a Terrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific--an event which was followed by a coup d'etat enacted by the current Groacian government. Much to Miss Meuhl's dismay, Retief shirks his cultural duties and makes his way to the Foreign Office Archives, whereupon he is promptly barred from entering by a pale-featured Archivist speaking in the throat-bladder vibrations of the native Groacians. Because of the Archivist's insistence that outworlders cannot access the archives, Retief begins walking back to the Consulate and stops at a bar for a drink. At the, a drunken Groacian approaches Retief and threatens to cage him and put him on display as a freak. The bartender orders the drunken Groacian out of the bar, and Retief follows him, ultimately beating him up for information. When Retief returns to the Consulate, Miss Meuhl informs him that two angry Groaci await him in his office. One is Fith, an employee of the Terrestrial Desk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; the other is Shluh, a representative of the Internal Police. They are there to investigate reports that Retief has assaulted a Groacian national--an accusation Retief ignores in order to launch into his own accusations that the Groaci were engaged in a cover-up of the whereabouts of the ISV Terrific. Miss Meuhl continually interjects, expresses horror at Retief's claims, and apologizes to the Groacians on behalf of the Terrestrial Consulate. Despite the persistent denials of the Groacians, Retief continues his accusations, suggesting the coup d'etat was an effort to silence government officials with knowledge of the truth of what happened to the cruiser and its crew. Then he reveals what he discovered from the drunken Groacian: The crew of the ISV Terrific had been caged and paraded through the streets of Groac and then neglected until they died. Fith and Shluh finally admit the truth and offer to show Retief the hidden cruiser in order to show their contrition. When Retief sees the ship, he once again accuses the Groacians of attempting to mislead him, saying that this is a lifeboat, and he demands to see the actual ship. Fith has had enough and threatens to arrest Retief, who yields and goes back to the Consulate. There, Miss Meuhl is at her wits end. Retief orders her to barricade herself inside the office while he goes to the Foreign Ministry to gather more evidence. When he returns, Miss Meuhl informs him she has reported him to Regional Headquarters, and Retief learns he has been relieved of his post. Soon after, the Groacians appoint Miss Meuhl to his position, and Fith and Shluh enter to arrest him."
"<s>   THE MADMAN FROM EARTH     BY KEITH LAUMER     You don't have to be crazy to be an earth     diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable—     You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'.     Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.     Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here—     You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude.     Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge.     Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister.     Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up.     Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature.     I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape.  <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure.     Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word.     Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise....           N'est-ce pas?      Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost.     Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again?     I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And      bon voyage     .     Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor.     First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the      Wall Street Journal     from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors.     Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up.       Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa.          Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English.     Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?     Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her.     Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors.     But the building had a stairway.      III     The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.     She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.     Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed.       The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door.     Into a pair of arms.     I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two      sumo     -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes.     Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed      sumo     -wrestlers protested.     Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders.     Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted.     My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank.     I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes!     The message? Kraft Gerding demanded.     Something about escudo green. Put me down!  <doc-sep>Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head.     Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body.     Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness.     The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free.     In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny.     Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman!     The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan.     So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along.     He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.     He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines:       Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of....       And there his writing ended abruptly.     Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.     Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel.     He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.        Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship.        He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence.     He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth.     He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates.     He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind.     He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace.     He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place on the planet Groac, which is populated by the native Groaci. The Groaci is a skinny, pale species with a throat-bladder that vibrates when speaking with a glottal dialect in an unusual syntax. They are a sensitive race, according to Miss Meuhl, and they hide their heads and hurry along at any sign of trouble. Consul Retief has an office in the Terrestrial Consulate General and attends cultural events such as light-concerts, chamber music, and folk-art festivals. Retief suggests that these events are mere distractions from more underhanded business happening on the planet, which explains why visas are handed out for only a few terrestrial businessmen, traveling to outlying districts is forbidden, and social contacts must be limited to the diplomatic circle. Groac also has a moon that foreigners cannot visit. In addition to the Consulate General, other important government agencies exist including the Foreign Office Archives, the Ministry of Culture of the Groacian Autonomy, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the Internal Police (called peace-keepers). Close to the Consulate General is the bar where Retief goes, seeking a cold drink and information. The bartender stands in the bar-pit and dispenses a Groacian beverage he insists is poisonous to foreigners due to its lead content. Retief brandishes a thick gold piece to act as a filter. Later, Fith and Shluh lead Retief to a crevasse nine miles from the supposed landing point of the ISV Terrific. Due to the large veins of high-grade iron ore, Terrestrial investigators had been unable to detect the cruiser's presence, which had been disguised by a roof of heavy timbers. Retief enters the cruiser via a narrow companionway and sees dust all over the deck, stanchions, instrument panels, sheared bolts, and scraps of wire and paper strewn about the control compartment. "
"<s>Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough.     It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—     Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory.     Then you admit—     It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit.     Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.     I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more—     Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission.     This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself—     —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite—     Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter—     You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said.     You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped.     Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down.     Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.     Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.     Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over?  <doc-sep>Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside.     Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are.     Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—     Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning.     Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release....     Don't! Retief jumped—too late.     The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward.     Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men.     You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in.     I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish.     Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate?     You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety?     You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said.     Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building—     I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid.     As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief.     Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later.     Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on.     I'm on the side of common decency!     You've been taken in. These people are concealing—     You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up.     That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities.     Take the man, Shluh said.  <doc-sep>Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly.     How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell....     No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce.     False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade.     Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing.     They're alive?     Alas, no. They ... died.     Miss Meuhl yelped faintly.     I see, Retief said. They died.     We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods—     Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you?     They fell ill, Fith said. One by one....     We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade?     There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you!     Killed in the crash landing?     No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings.     Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?     Guns? No, no guns—     They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death.     How could we know? Fith moaned.     How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh?     We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends....     Where is the ship?     The ship?     What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it?     The two Groacians exchanged looks.     We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship.     Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci.     Let's go, he said.  <doc-sep></s>","Fith is a Groacian who works with the Terrestrial Desk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His associate, Shluh, is the police chief of the Internal Police. While both are Groacians, they speak to Retief in a lisping Terran and wear heavy eye-shields and elaborately-decorated crest ornaments indicating their rank. Fith does most of the talking as he attempts to convince Retief to cease his inquiries into the ISV Terrific, and Shluh is there primarily as a tool with which to threaten Retief. When the two Groacians first meet Retief, they accuse him of attacking a Groacian national, which Retief admits to, but he quickly reveals what the national confessed to him about the fate of ISV Terrific's crew. Although Miss Meuhl is sympathetic to the supposed sensitive nature of the Groaci, Retief distrusts them wholly, and when Fith and Shluh eventually confess to hiding the ISV Terrific, he further distrusts their sincerity of contrition and accuses them of showing him a lifeboat instead of the missing cruiser. This accusation infuriates Fith, who threatens to have Shluh's attending officers arrest Retief on the spot. Later, following Retief's break-in at the Foreign Ministry, Fith appoints Miss Meuh as Consul for the Terrestrial States and orders Shluh to arrest Retief."
"<s>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk.     To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones.     To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.     Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly.     To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door.     To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place.     I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien.     To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered.     To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals.     To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.     To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you.     To flee before I take a cane to you!     To have a drink together—     To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away.     To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy—     The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian.     Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.     To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk.      II     There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.     Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry.     What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou.     I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder.     Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.     I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police?     Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.     Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began.     Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today.     So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief.     One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul.     Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.     Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the      ISV Terrific     , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago?     Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands—     Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped.     I'll not be a party—     You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation.     Miss Meuhl sat down.     Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands—     Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me.     All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you—     Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent.     IF! Miss Meuhl burst out.     If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour—  <doc-sep>   THE MADMAN FROM EARTH     BY KEITH LAUMER     You don't have to be crazy to be an earth     diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable—     You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'.     Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.     Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here—     You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude.     Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge.     Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister.     Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up.     Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature.     I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape.  <doc-sep></s>","The ISV Terrific, full name ISV Terrific B7 New Terra, was a Terrestrial cruiser gone missing nine years prior to the events of the story. The vessel landed on Groac and its crew was captured and paraded through the streets by the Groaci. The crew died of mysterious causes and the vessel was hidden in a cavern and undetectable by investigators thanks to large veins of high-grade iron ore under the planet's surface. After a Terrestrial investigation failed to uncover the cruiser, a Groacian coup d'etat replaced the government in the time before the establishment of the Terrestrial Consulate General. Fith and Shluh deny any wrongdoing related to the deaths of the crewmembers when Retief confronts them about the situation, insisting that the crew died because the Groaci were ignorant about the Terran diet. They do, however, admit that they hid the cruiser. When they lead Retief to the ship, he observes its state of disrepair: A thick layer of dust covers the deck, stanchions, acceleration couches, instrument panels, sheared bolts, and scraps of wire and paper strewn about the control compartment. Then, Retief accuses them of attempting to continue their deception by showing him a lifeboat instead of the actual cruiser. This enrages Fith. The disappearance of the ISV Terrific, the coup d'etat that followed, and the subsequent incompetent Terrestrial investigation had led Retief to conduct the investigation in the first place and ultimately reveal that the Groacians are trying to hide something more sinister."
"<s>   THE MADMAN FROM EARTH     BY KEITH LAUMER     You don't have to be crazy to be an earth     diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable—     You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'.     Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.     Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here—     You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude.     Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge.     Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister.     Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up.     Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature.     I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape.  <doc-sep>I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem.     Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl?     Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me.     Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy.     Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup?     I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives.     Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for?     Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power?     I'm sure I haven't pried into—     What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back?     Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we      avoid     with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding—     Why?     The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion.     You mean when they came looking for the cruiser?     I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.     They never found the cruiser, did they?     Certainly not on Groac.     Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door.  <doc-sep>The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will—     Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face.     Why, what is the meaning—     If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser.     You heard him relieve you!     I heard him say he was      going     to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around.     You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator.     I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound—     Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait.     Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder.     The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it.     Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it.     A Groacian official appeared on the screen.     Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.     Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets—  <doc-sep></s>","Miss Yolanda Meuhl is the Administrative Assistant of The Consul for the Terrestrial States Retief, the replacement for Consul Whaffle who left the post three months prior. Miss Meuhl wears glasses, uses a dictyper, and takes her position at the Consulate extremely seriously. She faithfully executes her duties as an administrative assistant without question, which leads her to develop a blind trust in authority as well as the Groaci race, according to Retief.  Miss Meuhl considers the Groaci to be a sensitive race and defends them against Retief's constant accusations of misconduct. She threatens to report Retief to the Regional Headquarters when he continues to act against the guidelines set forth by the Corps. Her commitment to diplomatic relations ensures that she takes the side of the Groaci in nearly every matter; she even excuses when Fith and Shluh admit to hiding the Terrestrial cruiser. When Retief orders Miss Meuhl to lock herself inside the office while he goes to break into the Foreign Ministry, Miss Meuhl calls the Regional Headquarters and makes a full report of his actions. When he returns, Counsellor Pardy calls and relieves Retief of his post. Then, a Groacian official calls and appoints Miss Meuhl to the post vacated by Retief, which she accepts. She then allows the Groacian officials to enter the office in order to arrest Retief."
"<s>   THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles.      Phobos!     he thoughtwildly.      If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement!       The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero.       Why did they tap me for this job?     he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness.      What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?       He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown—       My God     , thought Matheny,      here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man!       He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever.     The city roared at him.     He fumbled after his pipe.      Of course     , he told himself,      that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld?       He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood.     The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency.  <doc-sep>The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed.     When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain.     Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth!     Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life.     Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the      Mary Lou     .     Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship.     But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable.     Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships?     The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars.     There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away.     Deep within him a faint voice cried,       It's come—for me!      but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space?     He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again.     But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter.     Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him.  <doc-sep></s>","Herrell McCray is a navigator on the Starship Jodrell Bank heading for the colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine when he is inexplicably abducted from his ship. He finds himself staring around a dark, silent room full of indeterminate objects. He believes he hears a faint voice in the distance, and suddenly a pinkish light illuminates his path of vision. He sees many familiar objects including a spacesuit, a child's rocking chair, a girl's bathing suit, and more; he wonders how he got there and why such objects are there with him. Three of the room's walls are made of a hard, organic compound, and from grates comprising the fourth wall pours a pungent air. As McCray's confidence returns, he wonders what happened to the Starship Jodrell Bank and begins to wonder if he is dead. When he remembers spacesuits come with radios, he tries contacting the ship to no avail and realizes he must be many lightyears away. Then, with sudden horror, he realizes that he cannot see his own body, and the room goes dark again. Outside the room, an alien named Hatcher runs a probe team tasked with observing McCray and running experiments on him in order to develop an understanding of the human species. Their probes are mandibles that can attach and detach from their round, jelly-like bodies and run errands and conduct scientific research. Hatcher makes his way to the supervising council of all probes to report the team's findings that McCray displayed paranormal powers when using his radio to establish contact with his ship. The council urges Hatcher to continue his studies with haste because a member of The Central Masses probe team has been captured by the Old Ones, an ancient species hostile to Hatcher's people. His team must put McCray through a series of tests in order to help them potentially discover a way to defend themselves against the Old Ones. As Hatcher considers the best way to establish communication with McCray without causing him harm, his assistant alerts him to the presence of a female human on the viewing console. Hatcher orders the assistant to bring her in as they may need another human in case McCray dies. Hours after his initial transmission was sent to the ship, McCray receives a response from the ship. He dispatches another transmission and begins to notice the room getting hotter as the air grows more toxic. Hatcher has started the survival portion of the test. McCray uses an ax to break his way out of the room and enters another dark room full of desks he assumes are some kind of workspaces for his captors. Suddenly, he hears a woman's voice crying out for the Jodrell Bank and makes his way toward her. Hatcher and his assistant discuss whether to abandon McCray and focus on the female since she appears to be more susceptible to communication, but they ultimately decide against it. McCray eventually finds the woman through a series of doors and hallways."
"<s>   THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  <doc-sep>  Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the      Oktoberfest     . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the      Oktoberfest     . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s.     But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began.     Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If      you     could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked.     The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The      Oktoberfest     starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and—     Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested.     As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him.     Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune—     Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone.     A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers.     No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice.     A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler.     Out of the question, Simonsaid.     But      why     ? Betty wailed.     Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis:      I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature.     It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have.     It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh!     Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe      Oktoberfest     in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually.     Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children.     And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary?     In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours.     I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated?     The      Theresienwiese     , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked. <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins sometime during the Starship Jodrell Bank's Long Jump from Earth to the colonies surrounding Betegeuses Nine as it passes by Betelgeuse, Rigel, and Saiph. The rest of the action takes place in an unknown area of space within a great buried structure that is a massive labyrinth of dark rooms and hallways with unusual doors that seem to shift and change after passing through them. This is where Hatcher and his probe team observe McCray in his enclosure, which is no bigger than a prison cell, dark, and full of vaguely familiar objects: a spacesuit, a child's rocking chair, a chemistry set, a girl's bathing suit, an ax. Three of the walls are made of a hard, organic compound and the fourth is covered in grates from which a halogen-smelling air pours out into the room. Although everything is dark, Hatcher occasionally triggers a pinkish, halo-like light that allows McCray to examine his surroundings. Elsewhere in the structure is a place where the supervising council of all probes stays in permanent session, monitoring the work of all probe teams including the team at The Central Masses. When McCray breaks out of his initial enclosure, he finds himself in another dark room, large and bare. Using the beam from his suit lamp, he sees shelves, cupboard-like contraptions, and level surfaces that appeared to be waist-high workbenches attached to the walls and ceiling. He finds a gun on one of the benches. After finding the gun, he realizes the door he came through is gone; instead, there is an uneven, three-sided door he enters to find the unconscious woman on the other side."
"<s>   THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  <doc-sep>Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.     Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:     The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him.     This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him.     He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage.     Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces.     The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen.     Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.     Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?     Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.     The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic.     Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.     Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once.     But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like,      we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure     —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We      can't     go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.     Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent.     Yes, sir. But not in our way.     But in      a     way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report.     Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously.     The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.     There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him.     Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject.     But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically.     —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies      now     .  <doc-sep>Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.     It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.     Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here.     Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day.     He returned quickly to the room.     His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.     Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again.     But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies—     Hatcher!     The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded.     Wait....     Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look!     At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow.     Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex?     Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited.     Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in.     And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now.     Killing him, Hatcher?     Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once.      III     Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration.     The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit.     Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself.     God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light.     At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two.     He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening.     For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss.     McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange.     And yet, surely, it was warmer in here.     He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed.     A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from?     He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know—     McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is      Jodrell Bank     calling. Answer, please!     I      am     answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long?     Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray....     It kept on, and on.     McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they      had     heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long....     Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three?     Did that mean—did it      possibly     mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took      hours     to get a message to the ship and back?     And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he?  <doc-sep></s>","Hatcher is an alien of an unnamed race. He cannot be described as male because his race had no true males. He is three feet tall with a hard-shelled, circular body of jelly. His arms and legs are snakelike mandibles that can detach from his body, and he can control them with his brain from vast distances, although their effectiveness diminishes the further they travel from Hatcher's body. When they return to Hatcher's body, they rest in crevices in his skin. When he feeds, a slit appears at the bottom of his body and emits a thin, fetid fluid Hatcher throws away; he then places a nutrient-filled, kelp-like vegetable in the slit for sustenance. Hatcher is young, adventurous, scientifically gifted, knowledgeable, and enjoys playing sports. Although he does not feel the equivalent of human empathy, he also doesn't want harm to befall McCray and feels responsible for his proper care. Hatcher manages the probe team that observes McCray throughout the story, and he reports on McCray's behavior and his use of paranormal powers to the supervising council. Hatcher worries about hurrying to establish communication with McCray because he believes it will harm and perhaps even kill him, and later he wonders if communication is even possible at all with humans (later, he notes he is able to establish a minor level of communication with the female but wonders if others might be able to communicate with her). When Hatcher makes his report to the supervising council, they inform him of the return of the Old Ones, who have captured a member of The Central Masses Probe Team. He questions whether or not to tell his crew considering he was never explicitly told not to by the council. In many ways, Hatcher and McCray are similar although Hatcher is generally disgusted by the human body."
"<s>   THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory level lay beforeme. Abstracted from it, aloof and observant, the monitoringpersonality-fraction scanned the pattern, searching the polydimensionalcontinuum for evidence of an alien intrusion.     And found it.     As the eye instantaneously detects a flicker of motion amid an infinityof static detail, so my inner eye perceived the subtle traces of theprobing Gool mind, like a whispered touch deftly rearranging my buriedmotivations.     I focused selectively, tuned to the recorded gestalt.           It is a contact, Effulgent One!                Softly, now! Nurture the spark well. It but trembles at thethreshold....                It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm in the eatingtrough!          A part of my mind watched as the memory unreeled. I listened to thevoices—yet not voices, merely the shape of concepts, indescribablyintricate. I saw how the decoy pseudo-personality which I hadconcretized for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had foughtagainst the intruding stimuli—then yielded under the relentless thrustof the alien probe. I watched as the Gool operator took over the motorcenters, caused me to crawl through the choking smoke of the devastatedcontrol compartment toward the escape hatch. Fire leaped up, blockingthe way. I went on, felt ghostly flames whipping at me—and then thehatch was open and I pulled myself through, forcing the broken leg.My blackened hand fumbled at the locking wheel. Then the blast asthe lifeboat leaped clear of the disintegrating dreadnought—and theworld-ending impact as I fell.     At a level far below the conscious, the embattled pseudo-personalitylashed out again—fighting the invader.           Almost it eluded me then, Effulgent Lord. Link with this lowly one!                Impossible! Do you forget all my teachings? Cling, though you expendthe last filament of your life-force!          Free from all distraction, at a level where comprehension and retentionare instantaneous and total, my monitoring basic personality fractionfollowed the skillful Gool mind as it engraved its commands deep inmy subconscious. Then the touch withdrew, erasing the scars of itspassage, to leave me unaware of its tampering—at a conscious level.     Watching the Gool mind, I learned.     The insinuating probe—a concept regarding which psychodynamicists hadtheorized—was no more than a pattern in emptiness....     But a pattern which I could duplicate, now that I had seen what hadbeen done to me.     Hesitantly, I felt for the immaterial fabric of the continuum, warpingand manipulating it, copying the Gool probe. Like planes of paper-thincrystal, the polyfinite aspects of reality shifted into focus, aligningthemselves.     Abruptly, a channel lay open. As easily as I would stretch out my handto pluck a moth from a night-flower, I reached across the unimaginablevoid—and sensed a pit blacker than the bottom floor of hell, and aglistening dark shape.     There was a soundless shriek.       Effulgence! It reached out—touchedme!       <doc-sep></s>","Physically speaking, the probes refer to the snakelike mandibles that form the arms and legs of the alien race to which Hatcher belongs. These mandibles are able to detach themselves and travel vast distances away from the body, conducting experiments and running errands controlled remotely by the brain. When they return to the body, they settle into little grooves formed in the skin at the base of the globular host body. Hatcher manages the probe team responsible for observing McCray and running him through a series of tests. The supervising council oversees operations of all the various Probe Teams throughout the universe; the ultimate goal of all Probe Teams is to discover a way in which to defend their race against the hostile Old Ones who have recently resurfaced and captured a team member from The Central Masses Probe Team."
"<s>   THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  <doc-sep>Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.     It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.     Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here.     Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day.     He returned quickly to the room.     His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.     Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again.     But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies—     Hatcher!     The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded.     Wait....     Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look!     At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow.     Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex?     Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited.     Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in.     And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now.     Killing him, Hatcher?     Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once.      III     Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration.     The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit.     Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself.     God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light.     At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two.     He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening.     For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss.     McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange.     And yet, surely, it was warmer in here.     He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed.     A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from?     He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know—     McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is      Jodrell Bank     calling. Answer, please!     I      am     answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long?     Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray....     It kept on, and on.     McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they      had     heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long....     Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three?     Did that mean—did it      possibly     mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took      hours     to get a message to the ship and back?     And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he?  <doc-sep>It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room?     Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the      Jodrell Bank     , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational.     How to explain a set of Gibbon's      Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire?     A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here?     Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth.     Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had.     McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again.     He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the      Jodrell Bank     withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship?     He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the      Jodrell Bank     .     He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain.     McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for.     It held a radio.     He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the      Jodrell Bank     .     No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling      JodrellBank     .     Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please.     But there was no answer.     Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere.     Of course, the thing might not be operating.     He reached for the microphone again—     He cried aloud.     The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore.     For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest.     McCray could not see any part of his own body at all.      II     Someone else could.     Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that      may     contain food.     Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common.     If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.     Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares.     Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion.     The probe team had had a shock.     Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth.     After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray.  <doc-sep></s>","Herrell McCray is the navigator for the Starship Jodrell Bank whose mission is to reach the colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. He is young, adventurous, gifted in science and technology, and enjoys playing baseball, poker, and 3D chess. When McCray finds himself inexplicably abducted and transported to a dark room in an unknown location, he is confused about how he ended up in that location and why he is surrounded by items that vaguely remind him of his childhood. He is grateful when a pinkish light offers some illumination, and he attempts to contact his ship using the radio on a spacesuit he finds in the room. Before the light goes out, he panics when he is not able to see any part of his body; he later realizes this was a trick of the light. McCray continues to attempt to make contact with the ship and hours go by before he receives a reply, which makes him realize he is possibly millions of lightyears away from it. As McCray realizes his room is slowly filling with toxic fumes, he uses an ax he finds to break free and tries to find a way to escape his unknown prison. As he navigates the unusual building, he finds a gun and eventually hears a transmission from an unknown woman who is also calling out for the ship. He makes his way through bizarre doors until he finds her face down on the ground. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Moscow, Idaho     June 17     Dear Joe:     I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks!     It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world?     A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population.     Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.     They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright.     The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself.     Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep.     As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Dear Editor:     These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?   <doc-sep></s>","A Gleeb for Earth is a collection of letters, signed by two characters - Ivan Smernda (a human on Earth who owns the Plaza Ritz Arms hotel in New York City) and Glmpauszn (an alien from a world that is entwined with Earth through a spiritual fringe). Ivan dictates the first letter through his son Ronnie (14 years old) and sends it to the Editor of a print publication, feeling responsible for publicizing what he witnessed to save humanity. Ivan recounts an occurrence in the Plaza Ritz Arms where two alcoholic guests that he calls “stew bums”, Joe Binkle and Ed Smith (an alias for Glmpauszn), mysteriously disappeared, leaving their suits behind as if they had melted out of them. Ed had checked in with a mirror with a heavy bronze frame. After their disappearance, Ivan found only their clothes, the frame of the mirror in Ed’s room, and a stack of letters in the bureau in Joe’s room, which are the letters that tell the remaining story.The vibrational plane of an alien world extends into Earth’s (which they call the not-world), allowing intrusive vibrations from Earth to semi-terrorize sentient alien vibrations. Human spiritual mediums can force psychic reproductions of themselves into the alien world, and conversely pull alien vibrations over the “fringe”. The aliens can’t tolerate it, and send Glmpauszn and Joe to take on human form and develop a chemical weapon to kill all humans.Glmpauszn crosses the fringe through a vibrational gateway that allows his consciousness to move into a newborn baby. Joe has already arrived in human form. Glmpauszn quickly grows the baby into an adult man. At three days old, he is 36 inches tall and talking, and a couple of days later is an adult man. Glmpauszn writes to Joe by controlling the minds of sleeping people around the world to pen the letters and then mail them to Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms in New York City. He wonders why Joe won’t write to him, and can’t contact him spiritually, like normal, since Joe has fallen into alcoholism. Glmpauszn forgets to wear clothes and is nearly arrested, but escapes by becoming invisible. When Joe finally writes, it is to ask for money, enraging Glmpauszn who reports Joe’s actions to their boss, Blgftury. Glmpauszn becomes distracted by exploring human emotions like intimacy with women and love of money, which causes him to rob a bank and fill 18 rooms of a hotel with money. He also falls into alcoholism. Blgftury is accidentally summoned into a seance by a human medium who pulls Blgftury’s vibrations through the fringe (the very thing they are trying to stop from happening), and Glmpauszn is caught with a red-haired woman by his boss not doing his job. Glmpauszn finally develops a mold that can kill humans, and meets with Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms with lots of gin that they consume before successfully returning to the vibrational frequency of their world, releasing the mold in the room."
"<s>Dear Editor:     These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?   <doc-sep>Penobscot, Maine     July 20     Dear Joe:     Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.     There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations.     I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.     I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed.     Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.     I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly.     Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?     I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love.     I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.     I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture.     I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.     Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","A Gleeb for Earth takes place on Earth, where the spiritual vibrations of human mediums and psychics are intruding upon and semi-terrorizing another world populated by sentient vibrational beings. The vibrational plane of the alien world extends just a tiny bit into Earth (referred to as the not-world by the aliens), and the fringe between the two allows for human psychics to intrude into the alien’s realm, or for human seance practises to summon alien vibrations on Earth in ways that are terrifying for the aliens. The aliens can’t tolerate these vibrational intrusions any longer and have embarked on a mission to destroy all life on Earth by having two of their own take the form of humans and develop a chemical weapon (a mold) to wipe them out.The mission of Glmpauszn and Joe takes place on Earth between June 8th and September 25th of an unknown year. Glmpauszn mails letters from various international locations to Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms in New York City by controlling the minds of unknown sleeping humans to pen what he spiritually dictates, and mail the letters without ever knowing they have done it. Glmpauszn’s physical location is not explicitly discussed, but it is possibly nearby to New York City since he does not mention the need for any long-distance or international travel in his letters. Both Glmpauszn and Joe become distracted from their mission at times by drugs, alcohol, stealing money using their invisibility, and the sensations of experiencing human emotions like love.The Plaza Ritz Arms hotel in New York City is an especially important location in the story, because it is the final meeting place where Glmpauszn and Joe return to their vibrational realm through a mirror with a heavy bronze frame, leaving their clothes in heaps as if they had melted out of them, only the frame of the mirror, and the pile of letters from Glmpauszn to Joe that detail their entire mission on Earth."
"<s>Rochester, New York     September 25     Dear Joe:     I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal.     First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing.     We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.     You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.     In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe?     And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla!     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Moscow, Idaho     June 17     Dear Joe:     I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks!     It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world?     A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population.     Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.     They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright.     The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself.     Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep.     As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.     You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had.     But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way.     And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification.     Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn.     Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and      only     the human race.     I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself.     It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.     Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden.     Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.     We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you.     The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested.  <doc-sep></s>","Glmpauszn’s consciousness takes the form of spiritual vibrations that can cross from his world into Earth’s, allowing him to take control of humans on Earth and even insert his consciousness into a human fetus. He describes Earth as a “weird extension of the Universe”, because from his perspective the vibrational plane of his world extends just a tiny bit into Earth (which he calls the not-world). This is unacceptable to his people since human spiritual mediums on Earth have been able to force psychic reproductions of themselves into his world, and conversely temporarily kidnap some individuals from his planet over the “fringe” between the two worlds, frightening them. The intrusive vibrations from Earth have semi-terrorized the sentient vibrations that make up the population of Glmpauszn’s world. Thus, Glmpauszn will now take on the form of a human on Earth and destroy the entirety of human existence to stop their intrusions."
"<s>Penobscot, Maine     July 20     Dear Joe:     Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.     There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations.     I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.     I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed.     Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.     I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly.     Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?     I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love.     I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.     I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture.     I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.     Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Rochester, New York     September 25     Dear Joe:     I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal.     First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing.     We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.     You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.     In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe?     And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla!     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Moscow, Idaho     June 17     Dear Joe:     I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks!     It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world?     A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population.     Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.     They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright.     The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself.     Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep.     As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep></s>","Glmpauszn is a sentient being from an alien world that takes the form of spiritual vibrations that are capable of controlling humans on Earth (which he refers to as the non-world), or entering the body of a human to take their form. He travels through a gateway (a vibrational point that alters the frequency of those who enter in the form of a mirror with a heavy bronze frame), allowing Glmpauszn to take on the frequency of a human and move his consciousness into a newborn baby. Once on Earth in newborn form, Glmpauszn quickly grows the body of the newborn baby into that of an adult man over a matter of days, and begins using the alias Ed Smith. He writes to Joe by vibrationaly controlling the minds of a variety of literate people around the world to pen the letters and then mail them to Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms in New York City. The people he uses the mind of never become aware that they have written or mailed the letters.Joe (an alias name) is of the same world as Glmpauszn, and they are on a mission together to destroy all human life on Earth in order to stop the intrusive vibrations of Earth polluting their spiritually sentient world. There is a rocky start to their mission as Glmpauszn is not receiving any contact back from Joe who has become distracted by drugs and alcohol in his human form on Earth. Normally, Glmpauszn would be able to reach Joe through spiritual vibrations instead of letters, but Joe’s vibrations are very weak due to the substances he takes. Joe eventually does write to Glmpauszn, but only to ask for money, which greatly offends Glmpauszn who becomes furious with him for abandoning their mission. However, their relationship changes as Glmpauszn begins to experiment with the feelings of being human, and tries to feel love and consume alcohol. Glmpauszn starts to relate to Joe’s experience with alcohol, and they even decide to bring lots of gin to consume when they finally meet at the Plaza Ritz Arms to re-enter the gateway to their own world together after releasing the deadly mold that will kill all humans on Earth and complete their mission. They finish the mission triumphantly together, with Glmpauszn referring to them together in one of his final letters as conquerors and liberators for their world."
"<s>Rochester, New York     September 25     Dear Joe:     I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal.     First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing.     We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.     You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.     In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe?     And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla!     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Des Moines, Iowa     June 19     Dear Joe:     Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Wichita, Kansas     June 13     Dear Joe:     Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth.     Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left.     I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born.     When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech.     Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world.     Poppa, I said.     This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom.     They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct      thump     on the floor.     This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings!     I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone.     From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have.     New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations?     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep></s>","Blgftury is an alien of the same world as Glmpauszn and Joe, which is being semi-terrorized by intrusive vibrations from Earth (which they refer to as non-world) that pollute their world’s sentient frequency. Their world wishes to destroy all human life on Earth to become free from these intrusions. Blgftury is the boss of the other two, and Glmpauszn often refers to having to write reports for him begrudgingly to update on the status of the mission.Blgftury is not a supportive boss, because he wished to go on this mission himself. Glmpauszn describes that Blgftury gave him little praise, and even wrote thinly-veiled threats, in his response to Glmpauszn’s report on how he escaped the pursuit of the police when he was caught naked in public after forgetting humans need to put on clothes. Blgftury has the authority to take corrective action related to the mission, evidenced by how Glmpauszn doesn’t hesitate to forward him the letters from Joe that he finds offensive about asking for money and discussing “revolting bodily processes.” Blgftury has to pester Glmpauszn for reports when he begins to go off the plan and experiment with human feelings like falling in love and alcohol. Glmpauszn does finally successfully develop a mold that will kill all humans on Earth and sends detailed chemistry reports back to Blgftury on the subject. Blgftury spends a lot of time sending vibrations in the fringe area between Earth and their world, and by accident his vibrations are summoned by a spiritual medium into a white, shapeless cascade of light at a human seance gathering that Glmpauszn happens to be attending on Earth where he is fooling around with a red-headed woman in the corner of the room (flagrantly not doing the work of the mission) in full visibility to Blgftury. Blgftury responded with a pattern in his matrix that showed pain, anger, fear and amazement. Glmpauszn goes on to complete the mission and return with Joe to their home world without further interaction with Blgftury."
"<s>   The Haunted Fountain   <doc-sep> id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.   <doc-sep> id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.   <doc-sep></s>","Lois and Lorraine are having lunch at Judy’s house, speaking about how Judy nearly spoiled their double-wedding where they both became sisters under the name Farringdon-Petts by solving a mystery.  Judy starts telling the story of the haunted fountain. She discovered a photo of a spectacular fountain in her grandmother’s hot attic one summer as she was stuck there for two weeks while her parents went on vacation. She shed a tear onto the photo while recalling her sadness about not having friends or a sister, and imagined the fountain was a place for lonely girls to fill with their tears. Her grandmother overhears her speaking aloud her wishes and calls that she shouldn’t keep her wishes to herself, because “most of them aren’t so impossible.”Judy’s grandparents take her to the fountain in the photo and it speaks to Judy, directing her to shed a tear into it and make wishes. Judy sheds a tear thinking about how her only friend just moved out of town and then hurries through her wishes before the ripples disappear - to have lots of friends, a sister, to marry a G-man and to solve a lot of mysteries. All things that have come true in her life.Abruptly returning to Judy’s modern timeline, she takes Lois and Lorraine to the attic. They are spooked by Judy’s black cat, Blackberry, who makes sudden noises. Judy finds the photo and Lorraine recognizes the fountain is identical to one on her estate - yet it is in a different location. They surmise that it is in the woods on the edge of town that are part of the Brandt estate, and drive to it immediately.During their adventure, Judy recalls more of her fountain memory. Her grandparents didn’t know the Brandt’s well enough to pay them a visit, but instead stopped by the fountain on their way to drop off her grandmother’s hooked rugs at the estate further up the path. Judy was left behind napping in a hammock - told by her grandparents they were getting her a surprise, but they didn’t return. She followed a path to an old windowless tower, but got distracted by the sound of her grandfather's cart leaving. This is all she recalls, but there is evidently more to discover that will solve the mystery.The trip to the fountain shakes the confidence of Lorraine in the back seat, who knows information about the new owners of the estate - Roger Banning - that she is withholding. Lois and Judy probe her about what she knows and why she ducked down to hide her face from a stranger passing in a car. Although Lorraine tells them about Roger, she does not reveal why she is afraid. Judy mentions knowing Roger’s pal Dick Hartwell, who is apparently in the Federal Penitentiary for forgery now. As they park and exit the car to walk to the fountain, two dark-coated strangers approach them. This is where the story ends."
"<s>   The Haunted Fountain   <doc-sep> id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.   <doc-sep> id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.   <doc-sep></s>","The story opens at Judy’s house as she has Lois and Lorraine over for lunch. Judy’s lives in her grandparents' old house that she modernized with her husband, Peter. The house has an attic that is up a narrow set of stairs with a door at the top. They have a black cat named Blackberry that spooks her friends because it is creepy when it makes unexpected noises in the attic.When Judy is recalling the story of the fountain, the narrative bounces back and forth into their present reality as Lois and Lorraine ask questions.In Judy’s recalled story, she is a young red-haired girl with no friends who spends two weeks in the summer with her grandparents at their home. They have a hot attic filled with keepsakes and old reading materials, most notably a picture of a fountain that Judy’s grandmother later brings her to. The fountain was centered in a deep, circular pool, and had steps leading up to it that were bordered with smaller fountains of lions with water spurting out of the mouths. Judy thinks it could be a beautiful location at any time of the year, surrounded by lush vegetation like rhododendrons and evergreens. From the fountain there was a path leading to a windowless old tower that was populated by cupids and gnomes that peered out at Judy.Back in modern day, when Judy, Lois and Lorraine go looking for the fountain, the tower is still visible, and Lorraine describes it as something out of “Grimm’s Fairy Tales.” The friends visit it on a day where the trees are leafless in the woods, making the rhododendrons appear vibrantly green, under a gray sky. They do not actually reach the fountain in the story, but they do pass several posted signs for “NO TRESPASSING” along the wooded road."
"<s> id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.   <doc-sep> id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.   <doc-sep> id=chap03>  CHAPTER III   A Strange Encounter    Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain.     “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy.     “You’ll remember it, won’t you?”     Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly.     “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving.     It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it.     “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.”     “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow.     The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon.     “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had  some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.”     “How could they?” asked Lois.     “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—”     Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare.     “Before what?” questioned Judy.     “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her.     “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.”     “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in.     “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.”     “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.”     “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.”     “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?”     “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.”     “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate.     “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.”     As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair.     “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?”     “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.”     “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly.     She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling.     Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind.     “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?”     “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.”     “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.”     “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.”     “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—”     “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.”     “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.”     “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.”     “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.”     “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to  Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.”     “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.”     “For what?” asked Judy.     Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip.     “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her.     Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime.     “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?”     “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained.     “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine.     “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling.  Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?”     Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.”     “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.”     “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a  NO TRESPASSING  sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”   <doc-sep></s>","Judy was a freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that spent two weeks every summer with her grandmother, Smeed, and grandfather while her parents went on vacation to a beach hotel they honeymooned at many years ago. Judy resented being left behind by her parents. However, during one summer with her grandparents, they took her to an enchanted fountain that Judy found a photo of in their attic. The fountain spoke to Judy and asked her to shed a tear into the fountain and make wishes. All of the things that Judy wished for in her life came true - to have a lot of friends, a sister, to marry a G-man and to solve a lot of mysteries. In the telling of the story, Judy is older, married, and has a sister Lois (by way of Judy’s marriage to her brother), and another close friend like a sister, Lorraine (by way of her marrying into the same family as Lois - the Farringdon-Petts). Judy shows modesty by bringing up the mysteries she never solved when Lois and Lorraine shower her with compliments. Judy’s grandparents have since passed, but she lives in their home and keeps their belongings in the attic, showing her connection with family. Judy (maiden name Bolten) is married to Peter Dobbs, an FBI agent, and she prefers to discuss facts instead of gossiping about hear-say with Lois and Lorraine. Judy is diligent in asking questions about Lorraine’s behavior when she ducks down in the car to hide her face from a passing stranger, and probes her to tell the truth about knowing who the new owner of the Brandt estate is - Roger Banning. Her wit is sharp, and she comes across as determined and willing to take risks to solve her mysteries (like passing no trespassing signs in broad daylight after they have already been spotted by a stranger)."
"<s> id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.   <doc-sep>   The Haunted Fountain   <doc-sep> id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.   <doc-sep></s>","Tears are the inciting event that connect Judy with the photo of the fountain as a tear rolls off her cheek and onto the photo as she thinks of her loneliness in her grandparents attic. Expressing her longing for friendship and a sister aloud sparks her grandmother to take her along to the fountain itself. When visiting the fountain, tears again become important because the fountain asks for a tear to be shed into it before wishes can be made.The physical description of tears rolling onto a photograph or causing small ripples in the fountain that travel and dissipate are important visualizations that draw the reader into Judy’s story, and make her character feel real. "
"<s> id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.   <doc-sep> id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.   <doc-sep> id=chap03>  CHAPTER III   A Strange Encounter    Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain.     “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy.     “You’ll remember it, won’t you?”     Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly.     “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving.     It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it.     “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.”     “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow.     The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon.     “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had  some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.”     “How could they?” asked Lois.     “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—”     Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare.     “Before what?” questioned Judy.     “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her.     “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.”     “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in.     “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.”     “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.”     “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.”     “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?”     “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.”     “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate.     “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.”     As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair.     “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?”     “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.”     “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly.     She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling.     Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind.     “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?”     “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.”     “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.”     “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.”     “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—”     “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.”     “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.”     “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.”     “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.”     “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to  Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.”     “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.”     “For what?” asked Judy.     Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip.     “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her.     Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime.     “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?”     “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained.     “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine.     “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling.  Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?”     Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.”     “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.”     “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a  NO TRESPASSING  sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”   <doc-sep></s>","Lois and Lorraine became sisters by marriage as they both married into the Farringdon-Petts family in a double-wedding event. Judy (a sister to Lois by way of her marrying Lois’ brother, Peter Dobbs), nearly ruined the double-wedding trying to solve a mystery.Lois is perhaps more forgiving to Judy, and Lorraine goes as far as to describe that Lois has always taken Judy’s side. Both Lois and Lorraine acknowledge that Judy is great at solving mysteries and try to lift her up when she is down on herself about the few that she couldn’t solve when they come over for lunch. Lorraine becomes evasive and hides from view when the three of them go to the fountain together, concealing information about the new owners of the Brandt estate that Lois and Judy eventually get out of her by probing questions. This event shows Lois’ willingness to challenge Lorraine, and perhaps also supporting “Judy’s side” as Lois calls her out on earlier in the story."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you      feel     all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist?     Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence.     Magnetism?     Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving.     Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?     Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion      is     involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability.     Molly frowned. Then what      is     it? What's it made of?     I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization.     Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look.     Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.     Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now—     The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.     I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval.     Certainly not, I said. Is it broken?     Not exactly      broken     , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Alec Graham returns to his home from the office after a long day. His wife Molly has left, and he still feels that it looks wife-deserted even after doing many chores to clean it up. He recounts his bad day, having forgotten to set his alarm and rushing to the TV Studio that he writes for. The taxi driver refuses to take him to Madison and Fifty-fourth, and the rain has gotten worse. His hand continuously bleeds after passing by a big excavation site, and he misses his story conference. After hearing the same phrases numerous times and all six elevators being jammed, he is convinced that he is coincidence prone. Molly leaves him instructions on how to take care of himself, and he works on his novel. More of these events happen with pigeons colliding and somebody getting five straight-flushes in a row. Nat tells Alec about the strange occurrence as they get soda. The three bottles do not break after falling at least five feet, and Danny, the cop, is shocked. Outside, more strange events occur when Nat almost gets caught up with a swerving taxi. Once they return home, he immediately calls McGill, an assistant mathematics professor for some expert advice. Once McGill arrives, he says that all of the events are very improbable, which makes him inclined to believe that Alec is stringing him on or subject to delusion. They do an experiment involving coin-throwing, and all of the coins are arranged in a neat pile when Alec throws them. McGill asks him some more questions about any recent occurrences, but Alec suggests that they go outside to eat. Outside, the cars are being towed away, while two pedestrians are having trouble letting each other pass. Danny is confused by all that is happening. Alec also runs into Molly, stuck in a confused wrangle of umbrellas with two other women. She explains that somebody from their home had kept calling her mother’s number, so she came back to investigate. Back at the apartment, all of this is traced back to Alec as the center. McGill tries to explain what is possibly happening to Alec, but they are interrupted by the telephone repairman. Molly suggests they go out to a restaurant to eat, and Nat comes along. They pass by the car jam again, and the police lieutenant looks at Alec with interest. Even at the restaurant, Alec realizes that his Tom Collins drink is made with salt instead of sugar. When the bartender tries to remake the drink for them, the shaker has frozen solid. It happens again with a new shaker, and the waiter is extremely confused. When Alec’s hand collides with Molly’s cigarette, it goes into the neighboring lady’s vichyssoise. The two of them are displeased, and when Alec stands up, he ends up pulling all of the contents on their entire table onto the floor. The lady and the man are furious at Alec; even the owner has come to fix the situation. "
"<s>Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you      feel     all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist?     Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence.     Magnetism?     Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving.     Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?     Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion      is     involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability.     Molly frowned. Then what      is     it? What's it made of?     I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization.     Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look.     Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.     Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now—     The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.     I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval.     Certainly not, I said. Is it broken?     Not exactly      broken     , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore.  <doc-sep>III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  <doc-sep>   I am a Nucleus     By STEPHEN BARR     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian     sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had     suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order!      When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone.     What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted.     It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in.     Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said.     Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting.     If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is initially set in Alec’s home. There is a radio, Greenwich Village thermometer, and a living room. In the home, there is also carpet, cushions, and ashtrays for cigarettes. Alec also owns an alarm clock to help him wake up. In the living room, there is also a typewriter and a telephone. Alec tries to go to his conference in New York, but it is raining heavily, and the cab refuses to take him to his destination. However, the story also mentions the subway, which he takes. Alec’s stop is Fifty-first and Lexington. There is also mention of a big excavation site for a new building. On his way to the studio, he also stops at the drugstore. There are also at least six elevators in his building. Around the corner of the apartment, there is a delicatessen that sells soda. On the streets outside, cars are jamming into each other and have to be towed away. Later, the story is set in a restaurant near Sixth Avenue. The restaurant is crowded but cool, and there is a bar too. There is also background music and the faint hum of the air-conditioner, both that stop shortly after. "
"<s>Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably.     I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium.     When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots.     All      right     , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything.     When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,      more     trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence.     Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on.     Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—     Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent.     At once, he said, and hung up.     While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.     This was absolutely not my day.  <doc-sep>McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone.     You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open.     But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay.     Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down.     Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.     I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this.     McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us.     In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.     I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?     He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it.     Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.     If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is.     Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.     When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady.     I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces.  <doc-sep>Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere!     Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be.     All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it!     And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary.     The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife.     Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was      I     all right!     Molly! What are you doing here?     I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right?     Of course I'm all right. But why....     The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you      sure     you're all right?     I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it.     Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said.     When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet.     He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him.     In other words, you think it's something organic?     Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed.     But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern.     Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.  <doc-sep></s>","McGill is an assistant mathematics professor at a nearby university. He is friends with both Alec and Molly, even calling to ask about the both of them. He is considered to be highly imaginative, but they believe that he knows everything. Personality-wise, McGill is a very logical person. He believes that what Alec has told him is normally impossible, and the odds against it are very astronomical as well. Even when Alec shows him what has happened to him, he continues to pursue a logical explanation. However, despite these theories, he tries to approach these findings logically and tells Alec not to be superstitious when they initially discuss why this is happening to him. "
"<s>McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone.     You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open.     But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay.     Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down.     Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.     I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this.     McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us.     In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.     I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?     He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it.     Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.     If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is.     Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.     When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady.     I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces.  <doc-sep>Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere!     Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be.     All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it!     And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary.     The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife.     Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was      I     all right!     Molly! What are you doing here?     I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right?     Of course I'm all right. But why....     The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you      sure     you're all right?     I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it.     Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said.     When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet.     He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him.     In other words, you think it's something organic?     Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed.     But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern.     Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.  <doc-sep>   Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  <doc-sep></s>","Molly Graham is Alec’s wife. She cares a lot about her husband, leaving him notes with instructions on what to do when she is gone. She is also a former nurse and loves Alec greatly to do all of this for him. Molly also has a habit of smoking, which she began doing when they went to the restaurant. When she notices something is wrong at home, she comes back immediately even though her previous plan was to visit her mother at Oyster Bay. Personality-wise, Molly is also a logical thinker. When Alec explains the situation to her, she also tries to find reasoning for it and catches on pretty quickly. Molly is very observant as well, watching the events that involve Alec play out. "
"<s>Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably.     I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium.     When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots.     All      right     , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything.     When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,      more     trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence.     Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on.     Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—     Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent.     At once, he said, and hung up.     While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.     This was absolutely not my day.  <doc-sep>Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you      feel     all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist?     Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence.     Magnetism?     Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving.     Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?     Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion      is     involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability.     Molly frowned. Then what      is     it? What's it made of?     I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization.     Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look.     Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.     Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now—     The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.     I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval.     Certainly not, I said. Is it broken?     Not exactly      broken     , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore.  <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen.     The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events.     It is thought—     The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice.     The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir?  <doc-sep></s>","Alec is tired, upset, and confused about the strange coincidences relating to him. When he first goes home, he is extremely tired and compares his day to be the same as being beaten down. Judging from the events throughout his workday, he does not understand how they all relate to him and thinks of them as extremely weird coincidences. He even thinks of himself as being coincidence-prone. After the soda incident, however, he no longer finds it surprising after all that has happened to him. As the events build up, Alec slowly realizes that he is the center of it all, and he knows that he cannot get out of it. No matter how hard he tries, he directly interacts with or is nearby becomes strange coincidences. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially.     He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract.     Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.     You will grant me a contract!     Will you please sit down?     He said sulkily, I will remain standing.     As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble.     The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race.     I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because—     You will hire me or trouble I will make!     I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty.     The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn!     At the key-word      avenge     , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Peter Karson has finished planning out the blueprint for the Citadel. He is excited to see it be built and go off into space to collect new information. Something suddenly snaps him out of his fantasy. Fifty stories above the window, there is a blood-red and subtly inhuman face staring back at him. The face slowly disappears, but he is stunned by the image. He then shakingly lights a cigarette and turns on the newsbox to see that an invader has appeared in Boston. More disasters are listed below, and the World Police announces that the Invaders have already begun terrorizing the world since they appeared twenty-four hours ago. Peter is doubtful that they can take down the Invaders and goes to Lorelei Cooper’s laboratory. Lorelei does not know what is happening because Harry and she have been working for thirty-six hours straight. She does not have a newsbox, but he tells her to turn on her scanner to see the news. The panel shows the Science City of Manhattan, but the Invaders have come and snatched up men and women. Slowly, two Invaders make their way to the Atlas building, where Peter and Lorelei are. He goes into the inner room, even though she yells at him not to go. The Invaders have reduced Harry to nothing but a puddle of flesh, and Peter begins to ask why they are doing this desperately. They whisper to him in a strange language; he suddenly realizes that Lorelei has followed him. She drops to the floor after looking at the Invaders, which makes Peter scream. When he awakes again, a doctor named Arnold tells him to lie back down and that he is in a hospital. Although Dr. Arnold initially tells him that he has been in the hospital for three months, he eventually finds out that it has already been nine and a half months since he went into his coma. All of the survivors are underground because nobody knew how to kill the Invaders. Peter is considered their last hope because he is a scientist, and he thinks back to his plan of the Citadel. The ship is built, and it is called The Avenger instead. Lorelei tries to plead with Peter, but he refuses and says that it must be him who finds a superman that can destroy the Invaders. He goes into space until the ship curves into orbit. Peter kills many of the changeling children, but he allows one to live. The child is named Robert and is considered to be a super-intelligent being. Peter is hopeful that the changeling can kill the Invaders, but Robert says he will not return to Earth. He explains that they are like kin to him, and he logically has no reason to kill him. Peter is shocked and tries to plead with Robert, but the superman does not understand emotions. Robert does not feel good about the expression on Peter’s face, and he hastens to an inevitable end. "
"<s>The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially.     He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract.     Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.     You will grant me a contract!     Will you please sit down?     He said sulkily, I will remain standing.     As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble.     The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race.     I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because—     You will hire me or trouble I will make!     I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty.     The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn!     At the key-word      avenge     , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>   THE AVENGER     By STUART FLEMING     Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird     super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was     forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been.         There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again.         I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter.         It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking.         It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.         But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.         A tear was trickling down my cheek.    <doc-sep></s>","The story is first set inside Peter’s office. There is a window that he initially sees the Invader through. The window can see up to fifty stories high. There is also a desk with a newsbox on it, where he lights his cigarette. His office also has a chair. Many places worldwide are mentioned too, such as London, Hong Kong, Paris, and Boston. Lorelei’s laboratory is two stories down the moving ramp. It is behind a door marked “Radiation”, and there is also a door mechanism with a password set to “Etaoin Shrdlu”. Lorelei owns a scanner, a video panel on the wall that is initially covered in papers. There is also an inner room with an X-ray chamber. The building they are in is called the Atlas building. After Peter wakes from his coma, the story is set in a hospital underground. There is a metal stand and a bed for Peter to lie on. When he goes off with the mission to bring back a superman, the ship exits from the underground launch chamber and goes into space. Peter goes past the Moon, past Mars, and over the asteroid belt. From his distance, Earth is a tiny blue star. "
"<s>Somebody said, Doctor!     He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.     He tried again. Doctor.     Yes? A gentle, masculine voice.     He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor.     Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets.     You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please.     He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei?     She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man.     Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.     Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor?     The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.     Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.     In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been      more     —than three—months.     He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner.     She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with      them     for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational.     But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her.     Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago.     But why? Peter whispered.     Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed.     Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering.     And since then? Peter asked huskily.     Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse.     I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it.     Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see.     Our last hope?     Yes. You're a scientist.     I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the      Citadel     . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,      maybe     , hethought,      there's a chance     ....  <doc-sep>It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the      Citadel     was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime.     It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone.     A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock—      The Avenger     . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting.     Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—     Darling, he began wearily.     Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way.     There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end.      They     still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.     They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer.     She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on.     Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight      them     , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?     She choked, But why can't you take me along?     He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer.     Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter.     He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head.       They'll     comeback—but not as      boys     !     We'll come back, but not as men.     We'll come back, but not as elephants.     We'll come back, but not as octopi.  <doc-sep>Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him.     The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.     The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter.     When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.     There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why?     The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.     The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.           Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....          The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive.           ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....          I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want?           ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.          He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly....           Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.          His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out.     She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor.     The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.  <doc-sep></s>","Peter and Lorelei are romantically involved with each other. When Lorelei sees Peter, she calls him “my love” and “darling.” She puts her hands on his shoulders too and kisses him impulsively as a sign of affection. Peter cares greatly about Lorelei, too, as she was the first person he went to find after seeing the news about the Invaders. When he tries to investigate, she clings to him and pleads for him not to go. However, she follows along too, and he is horrified at what might happen to her. After Lorelei passes out, Peter cannot help but let out a scream. Even when he wakes up from his coma, the first thing he thinks about is Lorelei and repeatedly asks where she is. Lorelei continues to beg Peter not to leave on The Avenger and asks him to reconsider. He does not want to go, but he tells her that it is the only solution. She cries, and he goes on remorselessly even though it hurts him. Lorelei wants to come along too; Peter cares too much and tells her that he could not stand seeing her change from somebody beautiful because of the rays. Although they say farewell to each other and Lorelei affirms that he will come back, Peter does not trust himself to kiss her goodbye. "
"<s>The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially.     He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract.     Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.     You will grant me a contract!     Will you please sit down?     He said sulkily, I will remain standing.     As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble.     The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race.     I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because—     You will hire me or trouble I will make!     I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty.     The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn!     At the key-word      avenge     , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!  <doc-sep>It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the      Citadel     was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime.     It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone.     A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock—      The Avenger     . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting.     Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—     Darling, he began wearily.     Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way.     There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end.      They     still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.     They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer.     She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on.     Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight      them     , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?     She choked, But why can't you take me along?     He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer.     Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter.     He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head.       They'll     comeback—but not as      boys     !     We'll come back, but not as men.     We'll come back, but not as elephants.     We'll come back, but not as octopi.  <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe      Quest III's     shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist.     But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible.     The people in the      Quest III     would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation.     One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth—     That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there.     The      Quest III     bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart.     Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the      Quest III's     bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit.     He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the      Quest III     ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting.     Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other      Quests     might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer.  <doc-sep></s>","The Avenger ship is what is built from Peter’s shining dream. It is much smaller than his initial blueprint, a globe of raw-dura steel no more than five hundred meters in diameter. It cannot house a thousand scientists, and the huge compartments are not filled with the latest equipment for experiments. Instead, it is filled with compressed oxygen and concentrated food to last a lifetime. There is also a control room, engine room, airlock, and inner lock. The Avenger ship is essential because it is the key to finding a superman who can save human civilization. Since the Invaders have caused the remaining population to burrow underground, this ship carries all hopes for the future. Peter believes that there is a chance that one embryo will be genetically modified enough to become a changeling who can save humanity. That is why he is willing to take the chance on the ship and realize his dream, even if it is not the dream he initially had in mind. "
"<s>The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially.     He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract.     Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.     You will grant me a contract!     Will you please sit down?     He said sulkily, I will remain standing.     As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble.     The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race.     I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because—     You will hire me or trouble I will make!     I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty.     The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn!     At the key-word      avenge     , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!  <doc-sep>Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completelyout of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slippedthrough, and closed it behind him.     A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulatedtemperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, butfragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir withjoyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, atlast! After six long and dreary months!     Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezesthat ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into thelunar valley....     How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could notafterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. Heonly knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were alacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, thechirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezesformed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as onecharmed.     It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome'sentrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, hewas startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of aHaemholtz ray pistol.     He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though hismeandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followedits hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from theGateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able tojudge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of thestructure which housed Sparks' radio turret.     And the shooting? That could only be—     He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at thatmoment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair offigures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts wasstaggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm,bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but inhis good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried tocover his comrade's sluggish retreat.     And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved withastonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... adozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!      III     Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. Agasp of relief escaped the wounded man.     Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick,man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!     W-where, faltered Isobar feebly, is      what     ?     The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possiblymake it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken,and— Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. Youdon't have one! You're here      alone     ! Then you didn't pick up our call?But, why—?     Never mind that, snapped Isobar, now! Placid by nature, he couldmove when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of theirperil. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying actionagainst their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weaponswere useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporaryway of staving off disaster. Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up yougo! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!     He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafysanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost boughwhen a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneathhis clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scantinches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud.The Graniteback was      not     a climber. It was far too ungainly, much tooweighty for that.     Roberts said weakly, Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call.     That goes for me, too, Jonesy, added Brown from an upper bough.But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as longas it lasts, but— He stared down upon the gathering knot ofGrannies unhappily—it's not going to last long with that bunch ofsuperdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here theycome!     For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathicconsultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body chargedheadlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was likethe shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and grittedbeneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted aboutthem in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the agedforest monarch shuddered in agony.     Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, itdid not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenlyto one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was brokenand cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!  <doc-sep>Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power withterror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.     Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—     Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Granniesmeant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast.Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A suddenidea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.     You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now.If we can just hold out—     But Roberts shook his head.     We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've justbeen looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when theyfirst attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it.     Isobar's last hope flickered out.     Then I—I guess it won't be long now, he mourned. If we could haveonly got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car topick us up. But as it is—     Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.     Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when wevolunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be wortha plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderousstones-on-legs!     Roberts said, That's right. But what are      you     doing out here, Isobar?And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?     Oh—the pipes? Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgottenhis original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgottenhis instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehowthroughout all the excitement he had held onto it. Why, I justhappened to—Oh!      the pipes!          Hold on! roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more,the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafyrefuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts.This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, severalsnapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware thatthe lethal ray of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon theiradamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.     Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gestureof enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreatingGrannies.     No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way offighting those filthy things—     But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. The pipes! he cried again,excitedly. That's the answer! And he drew the instrument into playingposition, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect overhis shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breathexpelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive,fearsome,       Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong!          Roberts moaned.     Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!     And Brown stared at him hopelessly.     It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no senseof hearing. That's been proven—     Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.     It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're rightopposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct overthere? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out oforder, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—butthe sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a shortwhile ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!     If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders.They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybethey'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we canmake him look out here—           Stop talking!      roared Roberts. Stop talking, guy, and startblowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our lasthope.      Blow!          And quick! appended Brown. For here they come!        Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.        He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more,a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashingdown upon the tree.           Haa-a-roong!      blew Isobar Jones.      IV     And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results ofhis piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it wasincomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst intowhatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed intoaction—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!     As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless,questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird andvibrant droning!     So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed,his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellowlifted his paralysis.     Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They      like     it! Keep playing, Jonesy!Play, boy, like you never played before!     And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the      piobaireachd     intowhich Isobar had instinctively swung, Music hath charms to soothe thesavage beast! Then we were wrong. They      can     hear, after all! See that?They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar!For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!     Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attackhad stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly,quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of thetree.     There was no doubt about it; the Grannies      liked     this music. Eyesraptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures ofgentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobarpaused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipewith redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.     Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should havebeen a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—andin two cases      dared     not—allow him to stop playing. And to thisaudience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches,flings, dances—the stirring      Rhoderik Dhu     and the lilting      LassiesO'Skye     , the mournful      Coghiegh nha Shie     whose keening is like thesound of a sobbing nation.       The Cock o' the North     , he played, and      Mironton     ...      Wee Flow'r o'Dee     and      MacArthur's March     ...      La Cucuracha     and—     And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Bloodpounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of thechaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore theblow-pipe from his lips, gasped,     Keep playing! came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. Just a fewminutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from histurret window five minutes ago!     And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory ofthose next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All heknew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came anothersound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank,sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.     He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words ofencouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.     Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in andget out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minuteIsobar stops playing!     Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiarvoice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar'sfingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:     After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres—      those Grannies arestone dead     !  <doc-sep></s>","Robert is the one changeling child that Peter did not destroy. He is described to have an eager brain, and Peter keeps feeding knowledge to it. Robert also has a superior brain, capable of instinctively solving problems that would take mechanical computers hours of work. Physically, Robert also has talons. However, despite being a successful superman, Robert does not understand anything emotional. He refuses to go back to Earth to destroy the Invaders, citing that he is a being of logic. Robert says that he will use the people on Earth for his own gain, which the Invaders are already doing. Therefore, he finds it illogical when Peter asks him to kill the Invaders and not his people. Even when Peter says that he is his friend, Robert says he does not understand and believes that gratitude is a reciprocal arrangement. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","The House of Masur is a family business in Zur, run by Koltan and his six sons. The business specializes in pottery and clay manufacturing for Zur. The family gathers as they deliberate the upcoming arrival of Earthmen. Some of the brothers express frustration that the Earthmen will be landing among the Thorabians rather than in Zur, disrupting their plan to steal the precious, scarce metals off their ship. Zotul, the youngest of the brothers, discourages the plan, saying that the Earthmen's ship is their only way of transport. After the meeting, Zotul ponders what other benefits the Earthmen could serve. The Earthmen eventually arrive at Zur, parading the streets and making speeches, and leaving shortly after. They return with multiple ships and establish corporations all over Zur. One day, Zotul's wife brings home a metal pot, which she had bought from Earthmen; she tells him that they are high in demand and that a new type of stove is essential to use them. Zotul protests, but later designs a ceramic stove, which becomes a successful development in their business. Earthmen continue introducing more technology to Zur, including a printing press and telegraphs. Zotul notes internally that though the business has made profit, it is dependent upon the pots from Earth. The business quickly begins declining, with sales dropping. They attempt to advertise their business, but advertisement has become fully occupied by Earth. After ten years, during which Koltan has passed on, the Masur business has dwindled. The brothers decide to go to the governor of Lor, who tells them that the developments are all beneficial, informing them of a new production of highways. The brothers are optimistic that they would be able to use their clay for the roads, but Earthmen begin using cement. The governor then refers the brothers to Earth's Merchandising Council, where Zotul meets Kent Broderick, where he expresses sympathy about the status of the Masur business and offers them the luxuries brought by Earthmen, completely free except for the cost of freight. The cost, however, is more than the brothers could ever afford, and so Broderick sets them up with a credit system, as well as a contract for the family to supply Earthmen with ceramic parts. The brothers enjoy their luxury, but it is short lived, as their contract expires and they find themselves in debt. Zotul then revisits the governor, who ends up being Broderick. Broderick informs Zotul that Earth has bought them, and every business in Zur, out, and that they own everything. Broderick tells Zotul that the family will work for Earth now, and that Earth will fully conquer Zur. "
"<s>All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  <doc-sep>   A Gift From Earth     By MANLY BANISTER     Illustrated by KOSSIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Except for transportation, it was absolutely       free ... but how much would the freight cost?        It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians!     Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.     At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.     Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur.     It      is     a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor.     The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease.     By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.  <doc-sep>The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation.     He said, How much does the freight cost?     Broderick told him.     It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.     Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more.     You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit!     What is that? asked Zotul skeptically.     It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect.     On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit?     Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan.     Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.     Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it.     It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.     I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures.     The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely.     Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.     I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.     I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down.     We haven't the equipment.     We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany.  <doc-sep></s>","Each of the six brothers of the Masur business has their own specialty; a director, treasurer, vice-chief, sales manager, export chief, and Zotul, their designer. Despite their equal roles in the business, Zotul is the youngest brother, and for this reason is mistreated. In meetings and conferences, he is rarely allowed to speak without being scolded, and his input is never taken seriously. Zotul also experiences beatings by his brothers regularly. Even though Zotul experiences this treatment, the brothers still expect him to carry the weight of responsibilities for them, such as meeting with Broderick."
"<s>All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  <doc-sep>   IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  <doc-sep>Gritting my teeth, I turned to the man on the stretcher. Something hadpretty near torn half his face away. It was all there, but not in theright place, and it wasn't pretty. I turned away, caught my mother'seye, and then I didn't even dare to throw up. I looked at that smashedface again and all the first-aid lessons I'd had flew out of my head asif some super-psi had plucked them from me.     The man was bleeding terribly. I had never seen blood pouring out likethat before. The first thing to do, I figured sickly, was mop it up. Iwet a sponge and dabbed gingerly at the face, but my hands were shakingso hard that the sponge slipped and my fingers were on the raw gapingwound. I could feel the warm viscosity of the blood and nothing, noteven my mother, could keep my meal down this time, I thought.     Mother had uttered a sound of exasperation as I dropped the sponge. Icould hear her coming toward me. Then I heard her gasp. I looked at mypatient and my mouth dropped open. For suddenly there was no wound,no wound at all—just a little blood and the fellow's face was wholeagain. Not even a scar.     Wha—wha happened? he asked. It doesn't hurt any more!     He touched his cheek and looked up at me with frightened eyes. And Iwas frightened, too—too frightened to be sick, too frightened to doanything but stare witlessly at him.     Touch some of the others, quick! my mother commanded, pushingastounded attendants away from stretchers.     I touched broken limbs and torn bodies and shattered heads, and theywere whole again right away. Everybody in the room was looking at me inthe way I had always dreamed of being looked at. Lucy was opening andshutting her beautiful mouth like a beautiful fish. In fact, the wholething was just like a dream, except that I was awake. I couldn't haveimagined all those horrors.     But the horrors soon weren't horrors any more. I began to find themalmost pleasing; the worse a wound was, the more I appreciated it.There was so much more satisfaction, virtually an esthetic thrill, inseeing a horrible jagged tear smooth away, heal, not in days, as itwould have done under the cure-all, but in seconds.     Timothy was right, my mother said, her eyes filled with tears, andI was wrong ever to have doubted. You have a gift, son— and she saidthe word son loud and clear so that everybody could hear it—thegreatest gift of all, that of healing. She looked at me proudly. AndLucy and the others looked at me as if I were a god or something.     I felt ... well, good.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place in Zur, a region within Lor, on a foreign planet. There is a neighboring region, Thorabia, often seen as a rival. Zur is initially a mellow city, made of clay and tile. However, once Earth begins overtaking Zur, the city becomes more crowded and filled with large, corporate buildings, made of cement and metal. Much of the story occurs within the office of the Masur family business, as well as the governor's building, and the office of the Merchandising Council."
"<s>   A Gift From Earth     By MANLY BANISTER     Illustrated by KOSSIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Except for transportation, it was absolutely       free ... but how much would the freight cost?        It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians!     Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.     At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.     Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur.     It      is     a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor.     The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease.     By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.  <doc-sep>All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  <doc-sep>Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street.     You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth.     But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache.     And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in.     And after that?     Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.     Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you?     No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations.     At last I understand what you said about the tortoise.     Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system.     Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed!     Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign?     Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.   <doc-sep></s>","The Earthmen first visit Zur as a small group, exploring the city and giving speeches declaring future prosperity for Zur. They return shortly after with more people, and establish corporations and a trade business. The Earthmen begin with small products, metal pots, but other businesses soon have to accommodate to Earth's goods. Earth quickly earns profit, with many Zurian businesses dependent on their production. They begin establishing more advanced forms of technology, such as printing, radio, and automobiles. The people of Zur are fascinated, and business booms even more. Eventually, Zur is completely remodeled with Earth products and services, driving other businesses to failure and resulting in the overtaking of the city."
"<s>All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  <doc-sep>The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation.     He said, How much does the freight cost?     Broderick told him.     It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.     Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more.     You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit!     What is that? asked Zotul skeptically.     It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect.     On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit?     Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan.     Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.     Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it.     It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.     I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures.     The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely.     Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.     I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.     I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down.     We haven't the equipment.     We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany.  <doc-sep>Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street.     You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth.     But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache.     And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in.     And after that?     Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.     Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you?     No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations.     At last I understand what you said about the tortoise.     Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system.     Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed!     Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign?     Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.   <doc-sep></s>","Broderick is an Earthman in charge of the Merchandising Council. He first meets with Zotul and hears his complaints about the failure of the Masur business due to Earth's expansion. Broderick, putting on a guise of sympathy, offers Zotul luxuries to enjoy with his family, in return for credit and their production of ceramics for automobiles. Broderick later moves up in hierarchy and becomes the governor of Zur, achieving power over all affairs. He meets Zotul again and gets the Masur family to work completely for him."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.     And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive.     But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.     Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later.     You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages.     Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I      couldn't     get a post.     Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.     That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone.     Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to      her     —in a moment.     I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.     But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.  <doc-sep>   Confidence Game     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by EPSTEIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or       going—but I know that if I stuck to the old       man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!        Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.     Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen.     Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth!     I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.     It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human.     I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him.     The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?     I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew.  <doc-sep></s>","John Kevin catches up with Doc, who has grabbed a human by the throat. He tells the human that man will reach the moon tonight, and the man agrees, so Doc will let him go. Kevin apologizes to the human and says that his father has trouble differentiating old events. They see Martian tourists approaching the corner, and Kevin recalls how he hates Martian tourists because they are aliens. The two go to a flophouse, where Kevin bargains with the clerk over the price of a room. He threatens the human but stops when he hears Doc mumbling. They go to the room, and he lays Doc out on the cot. Doc begins to mumble more, while Kevin begins to copy down the words in his notebook again. Kevin knows that what Doc is mumbling will make him the most powerful man in the Solar Federation, especially because Doc was once somebody extremely important. Doc then begins to cry, and Kevin decides to comfort him slightly. Kevin then meets a woman by the bus stop and asks her for a dime for coffee. He realizes that she is a human tourist and recalls how he hates tourists. She offers to buy him dinner too, and they go to get a coffee. Kevin is revealed to be a caffeine addict, and he tells the woman that he wants a hamburger. One hamburger becomes several, and he drinks a glass of milk. Kevin asks the woman for a few to take home, and she introduces herself as Miss Vivian Casey. Kevin tells her his name too, and she hands him a coupon from a magazine. When he comes back to his senses, the counterman is pulling a five-dollar bill from under his hand. When he goes back, Doc has made something. It is revealed that Kevin has been trying to get time travel from Doc for the past few months and sees a condemned snowbird. The two thin and heavy men talk to him, asking him to tell them where he came from. The doctor explains his condition and hands him a manuscript, and Kevin steps into the range of Miss Casey’s gun in real life. He asks her for coffee again, and she re-introduces herself as a North American Mounted Police member. She explains that Doc wanted to profit off of his time travel, but he did not have money. He wrestles the gun from her; suddenly, a Martian by the name of Andre appears. Andre makes Kevin realize that he is not a Centurian humanoid because he is the son of Doc. Kevin destroys the thing that Doc creates because he knows nobody is ready for time travel to be rediscovered. Miss Casey and Andre are relieved, while Kevin ponders why he destroyed the machine. He thinks it may be because of emotions or roast coffee. "
"<s>She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin.     I handed her the doctor's manuscript.     Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself.     Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror.     Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully.     I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else.     I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her.     She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you.     It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you?     She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police.     I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want?     Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel?     I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee.     It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar.     Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee.     He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that      did not exist     .  <doc-sep>Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands.     I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel      thing     fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew.     Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it.     I kicked the      thing     to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now.     Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me.     I'm glad, she said.     Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief?     I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed      it     because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident.     Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.   <doc-sep>Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that      was     my name.     Kevin, I told her. John Kevin.     Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help      me     .     Happy to, miss, I mumbled.     She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this?     I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine.       Dear Acolyte R. I. S.     :       Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe.         Name     : ........................       Address     : .....................     The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent.     There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out.     I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you.     She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand?     I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it.     I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways.  <doc-sep></s>","Vivian Casey is described as a pink and clean woman who smells of clean soap. Her hair is platinum, pulled straight back to draw her cheek-bones tighter. She has an appealing mouth; Kevin also notes that her body is lean, athletic, and feminine. She also wears a powder-blue dress that goes down to the lower-half of her legs. She speaks in an educated voice and is kind enough to take Kevin to get some food. Although he is annoyed she decided to tag along, she lets him order multiple hamburgers to satisfy his hunger. When she introduces herself, he assumes that she is a schoolteacher. Kevin later realizes that she did not pay for his dinner at all. Miss Casey then comes back with a tiny gun. She is shown to be proficient with the firearm, introducing her true identity as a Constable of the North American Mounted Police. She is also very intelligent, being fully aware of what Doc has tried to do in the past. Although she uses force to judo hold Kevin, she doesn’t put her heart into it. Finally, she is shown to be proud of Kevin when he does the right thing and destroys the time machine. "
"<s>   Confidence Game     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by EPSTEIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or       going—but I know that if I stuck to the old       man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!        Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.     Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen.     Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth!     I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.     It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human.     I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him.     The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?     I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew.  <doc-sep>Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands.     I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel      thing     fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew.     Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it.     I kicked the      thing     to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now.     Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me.     I'm glad, she said.     Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief?     I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed      it     because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident.     Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.   <doc-sep>She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin.     I handed her the doctor's manuscript.     Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself.     Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror.     Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully.     I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else.     I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her.     She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you.     It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you?     She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police.     I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want?     Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel?     I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee.     It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar.     Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee.     He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that      did not exist     .  <doc-sep></s>","Doc’s use of time travel has caused hundreds of people to disappear from North America a few months ago. He initially starts off using time travel to get rare editions of books and magazines in mint condition. However, he derails and starts getting books that do not exist. For many of his clients, they shortly ceased to exist after obtaining a book from Doc. Doc also had bought the entire stock of an ancient metaphysical order, which he then supplied to his clients. Books such as the Book of Dyzan, Book of Thoth, Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan, and the Necromican were given away even if they do not exist in the present-day. These books are extremely harmful because they essentially instruct the human race on how to achieve a state of pure logic without requiring food, sex, or conflict. "
"<s>Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that      was     my name.     Kevin, I told her. John Kevin.     Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help      me     .     Happy to, miss, I mumbled.     She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this?     I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine.       Dear Acolyte R. I. S.     :       Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe.         Name     : ........................       Address     : .....................     The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent.     There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out.     I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you.     She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand?     I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it.     I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways.  <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such.     When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.     The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.     The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well.     The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting.     However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked.     One, the fat man answered.      III     The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this?     I really think Gabriel      must     be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?     It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.     The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you      are     thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...?     The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem.     Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.  <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  <doc-sep></s>","Kevin initially believes that he is a Centurian who must carry Doc around in order to achieve something powerful from the man. He firmly believes him and Doc to be superior to the Earthmen and Martian tourists. Kevin is filthy, but he refuses to take a bath. He also has an addiction to caffeine, mistakenly believing that it is the side effect of being a Centurian. Although he looks down on humans, he is desperate enough to ask one for help and for some food. His fingernails are black-crowned and broken, while his teeth are of yellow ivory. He is also suntan and sprouts a short mane. Although he lies to Miss Casey and says his name is John Kevin, he realizes that his name is actually Kevin O’Malley. While Kevin does admit that he wants something from Doc, he also is clearly shown to care for the old man. It is later revealed that Doc is his father, Kevin O’Malley Sr. Even after Miss Casey reveals she is a member of the police, Kevin is still brave enough to throw the rest of the coffee in her face. Later, he realizes that he is actually an Earth human and not a Centurian. His caffeine addiction comes from the mind. Even though he cares for his father, Kevin does choose to make the right decision to destroy the time machine because he does not want humanity to become purely logical. "
"<s>   Confidence Game     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by EPSTEIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or       going—but I know that if I stuck to the old       man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!        Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.     Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen.     Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth!     I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.     It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human.     I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him.     The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?     I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew.  <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes.     Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile.     It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning.     He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage:     Dear Fellow Scientist:     A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I.     Jorj Helmuth     Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot.     The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.     The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him.     Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes.  <doc-sep>Matheny's finger stabbed in the general direction of Doran's pajamatop. Exactly. And who set it up that way? Earthmen. We Martians arebabes in the desert. What chance do we have to earn dollars on thescale we need them, in competition with corporations which could buyand sell our whole planet before breakfast? Why, we couldn't affordthree seconds of commercial time on a Lullaby Pillow 'cast. What weneed, what we have to hire, is an executive who knows Earth, who's anEarthman himself. Let him tell us what will appeal to your people, andhow to dodge the tax bite and—and—well, you see how it goes, thatsort of, uh, thing.     Matheny felt his eloquence running down and grabbed for the secondbottle of beer.     But where do I start? he asked plaintively, for his loneliness smotehim anew. I'm just a college professor at home. How would I even getto see—     It might be arranged, said Doran in a thoughtful tone. It justmight. How much could you pay this fellow?     A hundred megabucks a year, if he'll sign a five-year contract. That'sEarth years, mind you.     I'm sorry to tell you this, Pete, said Doran, but while that is notbad money, it is not what a high-powered sales scientist gets in NewerYork. Plus his retirement benefits, which he would lose if he quitwhere he is now at. And I am sure he would not want to settle on Marspermanently.     I could offer a certain amount of, uh, lagniappe, said Matheny. Thatis, well, I can draw up to a hundred megabucks myself for, uh, expensesand, well ... let me buy you a drink!     Doran's black eyes frogged at him. You might at that, said theEarthman very softly. Yes, you might at that.     Matheny found himself warming. Gus Doran was an authentic bobber. Ahell of a swell chap. He explained modestly that he was a free-lancebusiness consultant and it was barely possible that he could arrangesome contacts....     No, no, no commission, all done in the interest of interplanetaryfriendship ... well, anyhow, let's not talk business now. If you havegot to stick to beer, Pete, make it a chaser to akvavit. What isakvavit? Well, I will just take and show you.     A hell of a good bloke. He knew some very funny stories, too, andhe laughed at Matheny's, though they were probably too rustic for abig-city taste like his.     What I really want, said Matheny, what I really want—I mean whatMars really needs, get me?—is a confidence man.     A what?     The best and slickest one on Earth, to operate a world-size con gamefor us and make us some real money.     Con man? Oh. A slipstring.     A con by any other name, said Matheny, pouring down an akvavit.  <doc-sep></s>","The story first begins with Doc and Kevin going to a flophouse three doors down from where Doc has his confrontation. As they turn around the corner, many Martian tourists walk by. The flophouse door is fly-specked, and a tubercular clerk is sitting in a gaudy comics section. The room they later go to is six feet in all directions with five feet high walls. The other foot is finished in chickenwire; there is also a wino singing on the left, wino praying on the right, and a door with no lock. There is also a gray-brown cot that Kevin lays Doc on, and a light bulb for light. Kevin also sits in a chair; the floor is littered and uncovered. The knob of the door is slick with greasy dirt. Later, Kevin goes out to the streets. They go to a restaurant, where he sits at the counter with a cup of coffee. There is also a stool for Miss Casey to sit in next to his stool. As he leaves, he notices that there is nobody on the sidewalks. Kevin describes himself opening the door to an amber world and then an azure one. Neon light also comes from the chickenwire border of the room, from a window somewhere beyond. When Kevin brings back food to the flophouse, he mentions that there are rats in the walls. Inside his mind, one man sits on an ornate armchair. Another man is sprawled in the other chair. Later, as Kevin goes back to reality, the confrontation between Miss Casey, Andre, and him happens in the same room with Doc still on the cot. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure.     The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.     This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself.     Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.     Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile.     Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests....     Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to.     Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me.  <doc-sep></s>","This story follows the life of Martin from a young boy living in a rough neighborhood to an old man dying aboard an unmanned ship. We first see Martin following the disappearance of his mother - and lack of a father - which are commonplace in the neighborhood he grows up in where the kids rarely attend school and their living conditions are poor. Martin is taken in by a young woman, Ninian, who instructs him to call her Aunt Ninian despite being identified as his future descendant. Ninian has traveled back in time to her great-great-grandfather - Martin - in order to protect him from his future son Conrad. Conrad, described as an idealist, is dismayed by the future generations exploitation of Earth and destructive social order that casts out anyone and everything that doesn't encompass the privileged and elite. To correct the wrongdoings of the future, Conrad plans to kill Martin. The rest of Conrad’s cousins intercept this plan and instead, all decide to travel into the past to accompany Martin and protect him from an assassination attempt. Martin’s formative years are accompanied by Ninian, Raymond and Ives where he picks up art as a career, forms impersonal relationships with his descendants and learns more about the past and future quality of life. As years pass with no threat of Conrad in sight, Martin begins to explore his world alongside Ives on a yacht named The Interregnum. Soon though, the cousins that come and go begin to blur together and Martin picks up a detached view of the world as his interest wanes in his sheltered life. Martin lives to a very old age, and on his deathbed aboard the yacht, he is surrounded by all his descendants besides Ives, who passed of sickness earlier before. It is at this moment that Conrad appears, seemingly to finish his murder plot. However, it is revealed that no action was required to be taken by Conrad, as his fellow cousins have already achieved the mission of erasing their lineage. By containing Martin to a sheltered life, the cousins prevented Martin from living his normal life with a wife and kids, thus removing the possibility of their existence in the past, present and future. Furthermore, it is revealed that Martin had come to the same conclusion years ago, and chose instead to keep quiet out of his disdain for his descendants. With the cousins horrified at the knowledge, Conrad reassures Martin that their inaction resulted in hope, and Martin ponders to wonder if the assurance was genuine as he peacefully dies alone on the boat. "
"<s>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life.     All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed.     Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably.       There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man.     You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime.     The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer.     You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life.     But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life      you     created for him. And for yourselves, too.     For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there.     Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke?     What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed.     Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all.     Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married,      havechildren     ....  <doc-sep>Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.     We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.       Induced     , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden.     Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are!     I see, Martin said.     Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian      was     a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles—     What did you do with them? Martin asked.     But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint.     So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim.     Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?     No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.     Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know.     Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes?     Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system.     Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this      house     ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this      time     ?     Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that.     Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too.     A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself!  <doc-sep></s>","Cousin Ives enters Martin’s life when he is a little older, and is the third descendant to accompany him as his guardian. Out of all his descendants to assume guardianship, Martin forms the closest relationship with Ives. Rather than seeing Martin as a responsibility and duty, Ives sees Martin as an individual and seeks ways to connect and encourage his passions. For one, Ives buys a yacht named The Interregnum to which the pair take upon themselves to explore the current world in. They traveled across the waters and inland to see both the civilized and uncivilized world, with Martin taking it all in. When it was just the two of them, their relationship progressed further. Ives began to open up about the future world that he and his descendants come from and explain the nuances of the social order that rules. Ives is the first to explicitly and honestly describe the feudal and privileged social class that Martin’s descendants take part in, only due to their fortunate ancestry. Additionally, Ives is the only cousin to admit the potential truth in Conrad’s intentions, noting the dilemma between achieving moral good and selfishing maintaining their own good life. Martin even comments his confidence in Ives being able to see the obvious flaw in the cousins’ plans. However, during one winter, Ives fell ill to a severe chill and passed away before his own birth. After Ives’ death, Martin relently voyages across oceans and soon as they and the cousins blur, he begins to live detachedly. "
"<s>The ceaseless voyaging began again.      The Interregnum     voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans.       All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders.     As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked.     When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust.     Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised.     Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand.     Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.     The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!     Oh, I see, Martin said.     He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow.     When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about.     Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago.     There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so      The Interregnum     voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime.      The Interregnum     roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates.  <doc-sep>Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants      cousin     —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested.     Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see.     Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery.     'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway.     So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened      The Interregnum     . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.     The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on      The Interregnum     . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime.     More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an      avant-garde     form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results.     Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.  <doc-sep>   THE MAN OUTSIDE     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        No one, least of all Martin, could dispute       that a man's life should be guarded by his       kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?        Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way.     Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her       Aunt Ninian     ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that.     He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him.     But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad?     Because he's coming to kill you.     Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.     Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand.     You're damn right. I      don't     understand. What's it all about instraight gas?     Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.  <doc-sep></s>","The ‘cousins’ featured in this story are all direct descendants of Martin, identified to be great-great-granddaughters and -sons. Instructed to be called Aunts and Uncles by a young Martin and then later cousins by a mature Martin, they have rallied together to travel into the past in order to protect and guard Martin from an assassination attempt by Conrad. Conrad, a fellow cousin, is thought to be an idealist by his fellow cousins and adamantly wrong in his belief that the right thing to do is to erase their lineage in order to correct injustice in their future society. Despite the heroic protection of Martin, we find out that the cousins’ guardianship of Martin is selfish in nature. Aside from Ives, Martin holds largely impersonal relationships with his cousins, who appear to view Martin as a reluctant duty. Because of Conrad as a looming threat over Martin’s livelihood, a rotation of cousins traveling from the future assume guardianship over Martin and dictates his life in his hobbies or the information he knows - all to protect their own livelihood. At Martin’s deathbed, we find out that the cousins have had the wrong idea this entire time. In their insistence at protecting Martin and shaping his life to what they created for him, they signed their own death warrant. In all their planning and supposed intelligence and worthiness, the cousins have failed to observe the flaw in the plan: that if Martin had no wife and no children, then their very existence would be naught. Their forced presence in Martin’s life had rid Martin’s potential exciting existence - and in return - Martin’s lackluster existence had rid the cousins of any kind of existence. "
"<s>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us.     The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended.     We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way.       Ha, ha     , Skkiru said to himself.      Ha, ha, ha!       But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes?     Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient!     Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man.     We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance.     Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma!     Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff.     But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud....     The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to      stop     rain.     He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship.     What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury.  <doc-sep>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?     Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think—     It says, stated Eagan deliberately, '      In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander     ,' Thatmeans you, Jones!     But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—     But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure.     He suddenly seemed to gain stature.     No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement.     But— said Isobar.     No!     Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom—     Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it—     Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies?     Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe.     Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser.     All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:     They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside—     No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely,      no     ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon!     He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.     Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails—     But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity.     Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh—      fiddlesticks     !      II     And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.     Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly.     It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar.     Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to—     Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:      weltschmertz     . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold.     It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery....     You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons?     Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try      anything     to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now?     Below, I guess. In his quarters.     Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness.     But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.     Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit.     Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.     So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll      see     about that!     And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge      impervite     gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside.     On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.     Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety.     Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting.     Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.     Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?     Isobar's eyebrows arched.     You mean you haven't been notified?     Notified of      what     ?     Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?     I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe?     And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you.     We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like.     I will, promised Isobar, don't worry.  <doc-sep></s>","First, time is significant in this story as the main plotline to the cousins' interactions with Martin. With the future having time travel as a reality, characters in this story like Ninian are able to jump back and forth between the past - to bring Martin out of poverty and vulgar background - and the future to her present time. Although the characters in this story utilize time as an unchangeable and linear concept, we find out through hints in the story and at the final moment that time here is fluid and flexible. Anything that occurs in the past will affect the reality of the future. This is a startling pocket of truth that the cousins fail to realize until Martin’s deathbed - where they are horrified to find out that their selfish desire to protect their comfortable reality in the future had actually led to their own demise and ridded their entire existence. Additionally, time is used to explore the ruling ideologies of the social class both in present and in future. Despite the cousins proclaiming the future world to be free of poverty and highly privileged, Ives reveals that the realities of both worlds are similar in having wars and want and suffering. Only, with the latter future world dealing with these unsavory characters in exiling them and maintaining a feudal class system. "
"<s>Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants      cousin     —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested.     Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see.     Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery.     'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway.     So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened      The Interregnum     . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.     The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on      The Interregnum     . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime.     More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an      avant-garde     form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results.     Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last.     Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners.     Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium.     How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle.       Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused.     No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow.     The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.     During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment.  <doc-sep></s>","When Ninian initially arrives, Martin blatantly considers her to be dumb. Dumb to hire a cleaning maid, dumb to freak out over Martin’s absence at school, and dumb to hire a private tutor. Even with them moving to a different and more privileged neighborhood, he considers her dumb to go through all this effort to still remain conspicuous. As the reasons behind the cousins’ presence in the past and guardianship over Martin is revealed, his sentiment towards them remains the same. It seems that Martin is able to catch onto the obvious flaw in the cousins’ plans quite early on, and yet with so many cousins slipping in and out, and despite their proclaimed intelligence, none of them are able to pick up on this flaw. The flaw being: with Martin having no children, their very existence becomes an impossibility. This is revealed at the end of the story where Martin is on his deathbed, noting that he had come to this conclusion many years before and had chosen not to say anything. "
"<s>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  <doc-sep></s>","The Starship Pandora lands on a planet where an exploring ship and a rescue group disappear. Captain Gwayne was ordered to come and inspect the lost ships for a week. They prolong their stay because of a discovery of the carefully buried ship whose parts were exposed by a landslide and detected by a metal locator a few days ago. When two cadets, Kaufman and Pinelli, and one member, Doctor Barker, approach to examine the buried ship, a horde of mysterious creatures come to them. The leader of mysterious creatures, tall and man-like, kidnaps the two cadets with his members and runs away. Captain Gwayne and other crew members ride on jeeps and chase after the monsters. When they catch up to the mysterious leader, the cadets are sitting on each shoulder of the leader without harm. Captain Gwayne and Doctor Barker collaborate to defeat the leader and bring it back to the ship.After bringing back the captive, Captain Gwayne has learned from the creature that he is Hennessy, the missing captain of the buried ship. He reveals that the blobs, a peculiarity on the planet, can change the cells in living creatures to help them adapt to the planet, which has done to Captain Hennessy and his crew members. All the mysterious creatures surrounding the ship are either the original crew members or their descendants. They decided to bury the ship after noticing the changes. After he finished the story, Captain Hennessy went to gather with his people. And now, Captain Gwayne faces the same situation as Captain Hennessy did in the past: either die when they go back to the Earth or stay on the planet to become a different creature, which at least makes humankind survive differently. Captain Gwayne decides to stay, so he discharges all the fuel out to not let the ship live again. He then tells Jane Corey, the Lieutenant, the truth and his decision. They both know that they have to stay for the better strength of the species after generations because humankind needs to have at least one hope to spread their seeds, even in a different shape. They will obliterate all their traces so that the Earth will send no more humans to the planet."
"<s>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  <doc-sep>   Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  <doc-sep>The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing.     Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back.     No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.     I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer.     Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.     Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already.     The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling.     If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens.     It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.     Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.  <doc-sep></s>","Hennessy is the captain of the lost ship sent to inspect an exploring team fifteen years ago on a planet. He is also a friend of Captain Gwayne, who comes after him to check his loss. He becomes a mysterious creature adapted by the blobs, a peculiarity on the planet. Due to this change to him and his crew members, they decide to bury their ships carefully not to let other people find them.When the Starship Pandora lands on the planet and the two cadets from the ship approach to examine the buried ship, Hennessy kidnaps them with his members, leading Captain Gwayne to come to capture him. After becoming a captive in the ship, he reveals his identity to Captain Gwayne, and Gwayne confirms his identity with a series of questions that are only known to them. Finally, he tells all the story to Gwayne and leaves to gather with his people outside the ship."
"<s>   Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  <doc-sep>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  <doc-sep>He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog.     There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....     But there was no time.     Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back.     He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally.     Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids!     Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye.     The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there.     He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.     Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.     They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.     Then the mists cleared.     Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward.  <doc-sep></s>","Jane Corey is the lieutenant on the Starship Pandora. She calls Captain Gwayne “Bob.” She informs Captain Gwayne about the sneaking out of two cadets and the situation when Captain Gwayne asks her. She also gets the jeeps out when Captain Gwayne tries to catch up with the mysterious creatures who captured the cadets. In addition, after Captain Gwayne learns the truth from Hennessy, the leader of the mysterious creature, and discharges the fuel from the ship, he tells Jane about his decision. Jane does not condemn him for deciding the future of other members alone because she realizes that they must stay on the planet to function as a spawning ground for the human species. She is a good partner for Captain Gwayne."
"<s>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  <doc-sep>   Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  <doc-sep>Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.     There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed.     There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood.     The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.     Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back.     The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down.     Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers.     There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.     The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.     A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.     He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.     Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder.     The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.  <doc-sep></s>","The blobs are insect-like creatures with skeletons inside with four to twelve legs on their bodies. They are harmless. They are curious about any moving objects on the ground. They can change the cells in any living thing to adapt to the planet. They like humans, so they change their cells to let them stay on the planet.The blobs are the main reason why Captain Hennessy and Gwayne decide to stay on the planet. They choose to stay because the blobs make them able to survive on the planet without having to change the whole planet to do so. Without the blobs, they may leave to search for other planets that can let humans survive. But with the blobs, someday in the future, humans may be able to seek out more possibilities in other worlds where the blobs will help them adapt to the new environments. In addition, the blobs also change their shape from only a twelve-leg body to having a four-leg form, which is also evidence of how they like human beings."
"<s>Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  <doc-sep>   Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  <doc-sep>The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.     But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova.     It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize.     And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace.     Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back.     In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race.     If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.     Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival.     But how could primitives do what these must have done?     He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries.     Beautiful primitive work, he muttered.     Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested.     He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them?     Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming?     Barker's voice sounded odd.     Physically fine. You can see him. But—     Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.     There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.     The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.     Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said.  <doc-sep></s>","After the invention of atomic weapons, humans maintained peace for nearly two centuries. However, four decades ago, observation revealed that the sun would soon go nova, which would make the whole solar system uninhabitable for millennia. Since then, humans have been searching for habitable planets in other solar systems. They send many starships carrying deep-sleep stored people to different worlds, hoping they could be the colonies for the human race in the future, but none has promised to be safe for generations. So the exploring teams are sent continuously. Yet the situation is challenging. The training schools cannot export enough astronauts, so promising young candidates are trained as cadets on starships. Humans do not have enough time to find another Earth to live on for generations."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is about a family man - Henry Devers - returning to his hometown after a unique adventure. He was participating in an experimental flight that ended in an explosion. But he managed to survive thanks to regenerative technologies that helped rebuild his body and make him breathe again. The story starts with a grandiose tour around his town where the mayor, the National Guard, the Fire Department bands, and many other people participate though they all seem a little distant and scared to Devers. The official car lets him off at his house that, as he notices, has changed a little. Edith, his wife, and Ralphie, his ten-year-old son, meet him at the door. Later, in the living room, they have an awkward conversation about Ralphie’s school grades, his son quickly leaves for a baseball game, and soon Devers goes to sleep in his separate twin bed that his wife bought while he was away. He looks at his scars before going to bed, thinking about how people’s behavior changed because they believe Henry has changed.  In the evening, Henry’s mother, uncle Joe, and aunt Lucille come for dinner. Again everyone seems aloof: Henry’s overly affectionate mother now barely touches him and even cries for several minutes, his aunt and uncle cannot talk about casual things - no one looks him in the eyes. After all, Devers gets infuriated and screams at the guests, they leave, and his son once again tries to leave instead of spending time with the parents. Later in the evening, Edith wakes her husband because his good friends Phil and Rhona came - they all go to bowling alleys and then to a tavern. Even Devers’ close friends seem stiff and cautious while talking to him, dancing with him, being around him. On their way back, Phil tries to make a joke about a cemetery but stops himself from finishing it - this upsets Henry even more, completely ruining the evening. When they get home Edith tries to apologize to her husband and admits that she’s frightened. In reply, he says that soon such regenerative technologies and processes will be an ordinary thing, and his captain, for example, who died together with Devers, will soon leave the hospital, too. She asks him to be patient with everybody. "
"<s>Dinner was at seven  p.m.  His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table.     Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured.     This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word.     They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table.     He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight.     So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being.     The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it.     Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel.     Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled.     So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced.     Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room.     He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table.     Edith said, Hank!     He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you.  <doc-sep>She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station.     Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile.     She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again.     Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward.     No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white.     He was sure then that she      had     known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room.     She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out.     He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem.     Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone.     Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought      he     had changed.     He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore.     But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him.     He slept.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep></s>","Henry Devers was participating in an experimental flight that ended in an explosion. After that, he became the first person ever saved by regenerative technologies that had helped rebuild his body and make him breathe again. At the beginning of the story, he leaves the hospital after months of medical sleep during which his body was healing. Devers is met by the mayor and curious yet quiet crowds, he goes on a triumphant tour around the town and finally comes home to his wife Edith and his ten-year-old son Ralphie. They also seem aloof and hesitant, having no idea what to say or do around him now. He realizes his wife bought a separate twin bed which looks like an additional barrier between them to him, and his son quickly leaves for a baseball game having no apparent desire to spend time with the father. In the evening, his mother, uncle Joe, and aunt Lucille come for dinner: his mother cries, his uncle and aunt are not talkative - everyone looks stiff and uncomfortable, they are avoiding Henry’s gaze. It infuriates him, and after his angry outburst, the guests soon leave. After another small awkward conversation with his family, he goes to bed only to be soon woken up by Edith who informs him about his friends’ arrival. Phil and Rhona seem happy to see their friend, but after going to bowling alleys and a tavern Devers realizes that they are apprehensive and scared, just like everyone else. After Phil’s unsuccessful joke about a cemetery, Devers understands that everyone treats him as The First One, they cannot act as they used to because they are afraid. Later at home, Edith admits that she’s frightened and they all need time to adapt. In reply, he tells her that soon such regenerative technologies and processes will be an ordinary thing, and his captain, for example, who died together with Henry, will soon leave the hospital, too. Devers won't be the only one. He goes to sleep in the guest room."
"<s>He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend ofOriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, MaybeI shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't lookaltogether like the Norwegians of my time.     His fear that she would be offended proved to be completelyunjustified. She merely laughed and said, There has been muchhistory since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun byPan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' Europeanor Asiatic. She giggled. Swarts' ancestors from your time must becursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, butone of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name isLassisi Swarts.     Maitland wrinkled his brow. Afrikander?     The South Africans. Something strange came into her eyes. It mighthave been awe, or even hatred; he could not tell. The Pan-Orientalseventually conquered all the world, except for North America—thelast remnant of the American World Empire—and southern Africa. TheAfrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, andthey had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. Theyhad a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrifiedof being encircled. She sighed. They ruled the next world empire andit was founded on the slaughter of one and a half billion human beings.That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation.     So many? How?     They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armiesof them. Armies of invincible killing-machines, produced in robotfactories from robot-mined ores.... Very clever. She gave a littleshudder.     And yet they founded modern civilization, she added. The grandsonsof the technicians who built the Machine Army set up our robotproduction system, and today no human being has to dirty his handsraising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done,either, before the population was—reduced to three hundred million.     Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters?  <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy.     When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something.     For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut.     In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut.     The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back.     In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had.     This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip.  <doc-sep>Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry—     There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time.     Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened.     I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be.     How could it be for good? How, Hank?     That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did.     There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing.     Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question.     He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down.     I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming.     She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied.     Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome.     THE END  <doc-sep></s>","The main character - Henry Devers - is the first man to have been saved by regenerative technologies. After leaving the hospital, he goes on a grandiose tour around the town, but he can see that the crowds are quiet. At home, his wife Edith seems overly hesitant and restrained, his son Ralphie quickly leaves them. Later in the evening, during dinner, his mother, aunt, and uncle also seem stiff and anxious, infuriating him. After that, he meets with his close friends hoping for them to treat him as before, but all their actions show that they are not comfortable with Devers either. He realizes that everyone he knows doesn't know how to behave around him, they cannot look him in the eyes and are scared. The First One status makes everyone terrified of him, which his wife later admits. But Devers assures her that soon this kind of technology will be ubiquitous, and the old superstitions will die, people like him will be ordinary citizens. "
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds.     She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool.     She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.       She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone.     Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think.     There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy.     Where was he?     Who was Swarts?     What was the purpose of the tests he was being given?     It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers.     It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass.     This might be somewhere in Africa....     He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing.     Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.     Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its      alter ego     of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend....     Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe.     Last night Venus hadn't been there.     Venus was a morning star just now....       Just now!       He realized the truth in that moment.  <doc-sep></s>","At the beginning of the story, Henry Devers - the first man to have been saved by regenerative technologies - goes on a town tour up to Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. He gets off at 45 Roosevelt street - his home. Here he has an awkward interaction with his wife Edith and his son Ralphie who soon leaves for a baseball game. In the evening, Henry, his wife, son, mother, uncle, and aunt eat in the dining room - the guests seem to be stiff and nervous, it infuriates Devers. After an outburst of anger, he goes to his room. After his friends, Rhona and Phil, come to see him, they all go to bowling alleys and then to Manfred’s Tavern where they dance, though his friends seem relatively uncomfortable and scared. On their way back, they drive past a cemetery when Phil makes an inappropriate joke which leads to a moment of dead silence. Later, when they come home, Devers and Edith have a sincere conversation - she admits that everyone, including her, is terrified. After reassuring his wife, Henry goes to sleep in the guest room."
"<s>Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He      wasn't     being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him.     Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another.       The eyes. It always showed in their eyes.       He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are.     How's it going in school? he asked.     Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation.     Well, then, before summer vacation?     Pretty good.     Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank.     He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight.     They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house.     He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back.     She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off.     He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much.  <doc-sep>It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.     They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.     There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.     At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick.     So let's rock, he said and stood up.     They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll.     The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time.     Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife.     He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home.     They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One.     They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth?     Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed      faux pas     .     You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks?     Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—     Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?     Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line.     Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones.     The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies.     Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't!     The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house.  <doc-sep>Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry—     There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time.     Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened.     I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be.     How could it be for good? How, Hank?     That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did.     There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing.     Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question.     He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down.     I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming.     She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied.     Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome.     THE END  <doc-sep></s>","Edith is the wife of Henry Devers - the first man to have been saved by regenerative technologies. While he was healing, she managed to renovate their house and buy a new bed for her husband. Together with their son Ralphie Edith meets Henry at the porch after he leaves the hospital and goes on a tour around their town. She seems nervous and scared around her husband while trying to talk to him about their son’s academic achievements at school. Later she dines with Devers and his relatives, still feeling very hesitant and unsure about how she has to interact with him. Edith tries to placate her husband after he angrily screams at the guests because of how scared they are and the fact that they avoided his gaze during the entire evening. Soon, she goes to wake him up after his close friends come to see him. Four of them go to bowling alleys and then to Manfred’s Tavern, but his friends - Phil and Rhona - behave as strangely as everybody else. Phil makes awkward remarks, Rhona looks sick. After an inappropriate joke made by one of the friends, Edith has to calm her husband again. She finally talks to him when they get back, admitting that everyone, including her, is terrified and they need more time to adapt. After reassuring her, her husband goes to sleep in the guest room. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them.     The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.     A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy?     It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps.     The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter.     Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid.     So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions.     We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission!     It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.     At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.     What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out.  <doc-sep></s>","Svan, a leader of members in the Council on Venus, plots to revolt against the Earthman delegations who are going to bring back the news of the habitability of Venus. Initially, he eavesdrops on the conversation between the Office of the Deck and the Executive Officer, which is about the untrustworthiness of Venusians, the descendants of the first generation of Earthman who migrated to Venus. Svan then initiates a revolting plan against the Earthman.By showing this conversation to the group, Svan convinces the members to conduct his plan of not letting the Earthman ship go back to the Earth. In his plan, they will drive near the ship, five people will cause some chaos to attract the guards, and one person will put the delayed-action atomite bomb on the ship. They draw lots to determine when they decide who will put the bomb. However, Svan finds that no one admits to being the one, so he draws a cross on his slip, pretending to be the one who has terrible luck. After assigning the tasks to each person, Svan and his members drive to cross the border, where Svan brings down a native guard. When they separate to let one group cause the commotion and let Svan put the bomb, Svan takes out one bomb and leaves another one in the car. He knows that the bomb on the car will explode and attract the Earthman guards, which is unknown by the other members. He sees the car leave and turns to wait for the explosion. But the car comes back because the native guards found the rifle left by the murdered guard. The members in the car try to pick up Svan to flee from the search of the Earthman when Svan tries his best to run away. The explosion happens. Svan is on the verge of death when the Office of the Deck and the Executive Officer come to see him. They find a slip with a cross drawn on both sides in his hand."
"<s>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been      two     bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.     He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?     Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards.     Svan, listening, thought:      It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose.       Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards.       From the guards     , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash.     Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here.     Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said.     Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.     Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?     There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.     He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship.     Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?  <doc-sep>The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice.     Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time.     He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?     The right answer leaped up at him.      They all are     , he thought.      Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid.       He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with.     She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.     A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt!     The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.     Where are you going? he growled.     Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted?     The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger.     Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand?     Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road.        Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally.        Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace.     Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards.  <doc-sep></s>","Ingra is one of the members in the room where Svan plans his revolt against the Earthman. She initially objects to Svan’s plan, a plan to destroy the Earthman ship with an atomite bomb, but when she sees other people agree with Svan, who is the leader of the revolting group, she takes back her objection. She hands the bowl to Svan, letting him put six slips inside to determine their futures, which is that one of them will put the bomb on the ship. She is also the first one to pick a slip. When the conspirators conduct their plans, she is the one who drives the car. She listens to Svan whenever he orders her to do something, and she kisses him when they separate to conduct different missions. After leaving Svan alone, she drives the car in the opposite direction to Svan, trying to cause a commotion. However, the Earthman guards are searching for them due to the discovery of the left rifle from the murdered Venusian, the native guard Svan killed. With no weapons to fight against the guards, Ingra drives the car back to pick up Svan, wanting to flee with him, but dies in the explosion of the vehicle."
"<s>  DOUBLECROSS     by JAMES Mac CREIGH     Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the     descendant of the first Earthmen to     land. Svan was the leader making the final     plans—plotting them a bit too well.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned.     Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented.     The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back.     The Exec tossed away his cigarette.       If     they come back.     Is there any question?     The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives.     Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us—     Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them.     Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough.     The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards.     Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—     The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock!     Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.     The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see!  <doc-sep>Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness.     Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there?     The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party.     Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation?     Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years.     It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council.     And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow....  <doc-sep>He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.     Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee!     He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car—     Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body....     The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there?     Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us.     Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow.     Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.     Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said.     What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it?     The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?   <doc-sep></s>","Lowry is the Officer of the Deck on the Earthman ship. He has a conversation with the Executive Officer on the main lock, which is eavesdropped on by Svan, the leader of a revolting group. Lowry believes that the Venusians are trustworthy since they are humans with different appearances. Still, he also believes that there may be some fights between Earthmen and Venusians when Earthmen land more colonists on Venus.When Svan, the leader of a rebellious group, and his members drive the car coming towards the ship to plant the bomb, Lowry sees the car light. He is talking to the Executive Officer by then about this secret group called the Council against the Earthman colonies. Even though the Executive Officer highly doubts the loyalty of the Venusians, Lowry still believes that Venusians can be trusted.After Svan is blown away by the explosion of the car, Lowry and a surgeon come to inspect his body. They find the pieces of the bomb. They also find a piece of paper with both sides marked with a cross in his hand. Lowery is confused about the paper's purpose, but he is sure that Svan intended to explode the Earthman ship."
"<s>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face.     Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters!     Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words.     I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.     Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply.     Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail.     I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship.     Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.     We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear?     Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that.     Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli.     Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust.     For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.     I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross.     I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.     I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.  <doc-sep>  DOUBLECROSS     by JAMES Mac CREIGH     Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the     descendant of the first Earthmen to     land. Svan was the leader making the final     plans—plotting them a bit too well.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned.     Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented.     The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back.     The Exec tossed away his cigarette.       If     they come back.     Is there any question?     The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives.     Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us—     Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them.     Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough.     The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards.     Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—     The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock!     Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.     The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see!  <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them.     The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.     A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy?     It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps.     The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter.     Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid.     So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions.     We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission!     It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.     At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.     What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out.  <doc-sep></s>","The story happens on Venus. Venus is a habitable planet with a thick layer of clouds. There are two species on Venus, one is Venusians, who are the descendants of the first generation Earthmen coming to Venus, and the other is Earthmen, who come later as a delegation to collaborate with Venusians for the future colonies. The story happens in the background of the disharmony between Earthmen and part of the Venusians. There is a secret Venusian group called the Council, where the members fear that the future Earthmen colonies will harm them and deprive them of their living spaces. Therefore, to not let the Earthmen ship bring back the news of the habitability of Venus, the Council orders Svan as a leader to conduct some rebellious plan, which starts the story."
"<s>Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been      two     bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.     He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?     Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards.     Svan, listening, thought:      It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose.       Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards.       From the guards     , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash.     Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here.     Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said.     Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.     Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?     There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.     He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship.     Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?  <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them.     The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.     A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy?     It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps.     The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter.     Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid.     So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions.     We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission!     It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.     At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.     What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out.  <doc-sep>He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading      Public Youth Center No. 947     and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.     Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?     Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey.     Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer?     Wayne Seton. Draft call.     Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307.     Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.     A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight?     Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided.     The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley.     You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad.     The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good.     Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs.     The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary.     He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger.     Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear.     Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls.     Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags.     Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?     Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk?     Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection.     The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth.     Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout.     Yes, sir.     Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk?     No, sir, but I'll find it fast.     Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars.     Yes, sir, Wayne said.     So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack.  <doc-sep></s>","The slip with a cross is used to determine who will be the one to plant the bomb on the ship when Svan, the leader of a rebellious group, assign tasks to each person. However, during the process of drawing lots, when the person who gets the slip with a cross on it should reveal oneself to accept the task, no one admits because Svan, who receives the slip, didn’t see the cross on the other side of the paper. As a result, he mistakenly thinks that the person who received the slip is a coward that does not want to do the task, so he secretly marks another cross on his paper and accepts the mission.This misunderstanding of no one accepting the task drives Svan to suspect all the other members as disloyal and cowardly, leading him to decide to put one bomb on the car. He is so furious that he wants them to die for their disloyalty and cowardice while serving as an attraction to the guards. However, when the plan does not go well, and the members come back to seek him, he unavoidably suffers from his deed. The paper is later found to have a cross on both sides, which forms an irony of Svan's behaviors. Ironically, Svan’s suspicion of other people causes their death when he is the real traitor."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   GOURMET     By ALLEN KIM LANG     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine April 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         This was the endless problem of all       spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men       tomorrow on what they had eaten today!        Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.     In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the      Chlorella     and      Scenedesmus     algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without.     Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of      Moby Dick     , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.     The      Pequod's     crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The      Triton     made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in.     The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","The story first begins discussing how food is a central topic for men on ships. The Marsmen are called Slimeheads, honoring in their title the Chlorella and Scenedesmus algae that open the road to the wider space without by filling the spaces within. The Ship’s Cook is described to be the most vital man on a spacer because he is the one who turns offal into eatables. There are also instances described where the cooks have messed up and created disasters for fellow crew members, such as poisoning them. Paul Vilanova, the narrator, goes on to tell what happened on the Charles Partlow Sale. The ship is to take a low-energy route and carries various seeds of plantlife. There are the Registry minimum of six men and three officers aboard, including Paul the surgeon, Willy Winkelmann the captain, and Robert Bailey the cook. The cook is responsible for the livelihood of all the men on the ship, and the algae also helped feed the men in a way where they cannot afford the luxury of squeamishness. Although Paul is the surgeon, he rarely lifts a knife in space because his duties are more in line with serving as a morale officer and wailing-wall. Captain Winkelman is described to have a heart of helium ice and is extremely unpopular. Bailey is often his target, but he tries his best as the Ship Cook to feed everybody in a way that makes the algae somewhat appetizing. Paul admits that he does not like the Captain much, but he tells Bailey that his cooking is what keeps the captain retaining his plump figure. Bailey cooks them a luxurious meal the next day, but the captain only criticizes him. Bailey tries to ask what Captain Winkelman wants from him, and even Paul says that he is going to crack from being driven so hard. The Captain tells him that he is simply trying to widen Bailey’s horizons in terms of cooking. Bailey tries to avoid the Captain during meal time after, and Paul believes that he is the finest cook to go into the Hohmann orbit. Even though everybody is impressed by his dishes, Winkelmann still refuses to compliment him despite gaining weight from eating. When Bailey tries to convince the Captain of his food again, Winkelmann takes out a bottle of ketchup to eat with his meal. Bailey is furious, while Paul tries to cheer him up over some fifty cc’s of rye. After the therapeutic drinking, Bailey begins to cook awful looking and tasting dishes. Winkelman, ironically, tells Bailey that he is improving even though the other crew members complain. When Paul goes to visit Bailey again later, one of the crew members exclaims that the cook has managed to make the algae taste similar to real food. Paul tells him that this is the result of the Captain’s continuous pushing; he answers that he does like the Captain when Bailey asks him again. "
"<s>Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again.     I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an      ersatz     hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said.     We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey.     The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook.  <doc-sep>Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said.     No, dammit! he shouted.     Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it.     After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said.     You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of.     He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and      Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art     out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier!     Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman.     I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of      vis medicatrix naturae     , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed.     For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled      Chlorella vulgaris     that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last.     Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said.     I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought.     Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates.  <doc-sep>There being only three seats in the      Sale's     mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food!     Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said.     The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid.     I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually      good     .     Thanks, Doc, Bailey said.     I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him.     You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked.     He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook.     Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked.     I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do.     Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said.    <doc-sep></s>","One of the first-mentioned dishes that Bailey cooks is hamburger. He tries to create this out of the algae, seasoning the food to hide the flavors. He also serves a fudge for dessert that is compounded from the dextrose-paste of the carbohydrate recycler. After speaking with Paul initially, Bailey serves a dish of hamburger steak again. There is an individual head of lettuce served, along with a steak drenched in gravy. Later, he serves them a hot turkey supreme. The cheese-sauce is very believable, whereas the turkey is white and tender even though it is made from Chlorella. When Captain Winkelmann pushes Bailey too far, he begins to create disgusting foods. One of the first dishes he serves is boiled Chlorella vulgaris that resembles vomit. The coffee at noon also tastes of salt. However, at the very end of the story, Bailey succeeds in making his Chlorella steak actually taste like food."
"<s>Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain.     If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid.     The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed      hautcuisine     and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet.     Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country:      Mensch ist was er isst.     It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this      Schweinerei     you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby.  <doc-sep>   GOURMET     By ALLEN KIM LANG     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine April 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         This was the endless problem of all       spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men       tomorrow on what they had eaten today!        Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.     In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the      Chlorella     and      Scenedesmus     algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without.     Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of      Moby Dick     , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.     The      Pequod's     crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The      Triton     made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in.     The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.  <doc-sep>There being only three seats in the      Sale's     mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food!     Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said.     The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid.     I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually      good     .     Thanks, Doc, Bailey said.     I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him.     You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked.     He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook.     Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked.     I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do.     Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said.    <doc-sep></s>","Robert Bailey is the cook of the ship; he is considered to have one of the most important roles on the ship because he is the one who must feed all of the crew members. Bailey works very hard to try and please Captain Winkelmann, even though the captain constantly berates him on his efforts. He takes pride in his cooking, which is why he constantly tries to improve in order to gain the Captain’s approval. Paul considers him to be the best cook in the entire orbit, especially when he is shown to be capable of creating algae food that tastes realistic at the end of the story. Apart from the Captain, Bailey is very respectful towards his fellow crew members, especially Paul. Bailey dedicates himself to his food entirely, trying to cook up the best meal he can out of the Chlorella algae. He also plans to open a restaurant once he returns to Ohio. "
"<s>   GOURMET     By ALLEN KIM LANG     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine April 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         This was the endless problem of all       spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men       tomorrow on what they had eaten today!        Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.     In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the      Chlorella     and      Scenedesmus     algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without.     Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of      Moby Dick     , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.     The      Pequod's     crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The      Triton     made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in.     The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.  <doc-sep>    A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set on the Charles Partlow Sale in outer space. The ship left in the middle of August, and it is due at Piano West in early May. The path to Mars is considered to be as long in time as the human period of gestation. This is because the ship is taking a low-energy route. There are Chlorella tanks on the ship to grow the algae in. There is also a dining compartment with a mess table for the crew members to eat food on. The ship also has a cargo compartment, filled with the seeds of Tien-Shen fir and some tons of arctic grass. However, the ship itself is described to be quite small and cannot carry huge amounts of cargo. "
"<s>   GOURMET     By ALLEN KIM LANG     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine April 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         This was the endless problem of all       spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men       tomorrow on what they had eaten today!        Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.     In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the      Chlorella     and      Scenedesmus     algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without.     Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of      Moby Dick     , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.     The      Pequod's     crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The      Triton     made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in.     The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.  <doc-sep>Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of      Isaiah     36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water.     The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S.      Ajax     fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe      Ajax     in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the      Benjo Maru     incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing      Saccharomycodes     yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of      sake     . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the      Charles PartlowSale     .     The      Sale     blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the      maria     to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey.     Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on.     Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the      C. P. Sale     no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us.     All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids.     The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness.  <doc-sep>Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again.     I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an      ersatz     hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said.     We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey.     The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook.  <doc-sep></s>","The Chlorella algae is what keeps all of the crew members alive for the duration of the journey. Since twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the compartment to bursting, Chlorella algae is the solution to this. It can work over used food, air, and effluvia, three tons of metabolites that would see them through the entire round trip. Everything the crew recycles is fed to the algae, which feeds the crew members in return. The waste is used to fertilize the liquid fields. Even their stubble from 2,600 shaves and clipping from 666 haircuts is used to feed the algae because human hair is rich in essential amino acids. The algae is their food, as well as the water and air that keeps the crew members going. "
"<s>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.     You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves.     I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.     The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully.     I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering.     What date was it you wanted?     Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.     The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you.     I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.     On page four, under a column headed      County Notes     he saw the name Bram:     Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths.     May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?     The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye:     A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river.     The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow.     Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.     A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car.     Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car.  <doc-sep></s>","Simon goes to his desk as Betty remarks that he is late. He tells her that he needs a vacation, but she asks him where the funds will come from and her weekly salary. Suddenly, the door knocks, and a man named Mr. Oyster comes in. Despite having never met before, he is impressed that Simon knows him and asks the other man if he believes in time travel. Betty says it is impossible, and Mr. Oyster questions her about why. Simon then asks why he came, to which the potential client responds that he wants them to hunt up some time travelers. He asks Betty some more about science fiction and explains that he is willing to gamble his fortune to investigate the presence of time travelers in the current era. Mr. Oyster further says that these time travelers will be at the Oktoberfest in Munich, which is considered the greatest festival globally. Simon says that he is not interested in taking up the case. Betty is surprised, and Mr. Oyster tries to offer him a substantial amount of money. Simon then tells them a story where he accepts Mr. Oyster’s offer. Simon thinks about how much fun he will have and a fake report to generate for Mr. Oyster. He then goes on to be suspicious about how five million people can appear to attend a festival in a remote part of southern Germany, especially considering the population of Munich is less than one million. There is no hotel space in Munch, so Simon must go to Bahnhof to apply for hotel service. It is suspicious how the five million attendees are accommodated for this festival. The circus-like tents represent the seven major brewers of the Munich area, and many people are going around. Simon finds a space at one of the tables; he notes that the crowd is made up of both tourists and Germans. A bald-headed person and he both drink beer. The bald man accidentally reveals that his pencil is Venusian and tells Simon that his dream is to sample each of the seven best beer brands. The man then introduces himself as Arth and tells Simon that he is from a strange location. Arth offers to take him to his hotel later, and Simon goes with him. Arth gives him a box of pills for his hangover, and the scene cuts to them drinking at the festival again. Simon feels that something is off and decides to go back to New York. He returns to the office, where Mr. Oyster tells him that Betty has just finished the receipt. They are both confused and say that he has only been gone for about three minutes. Mr. Oyster is furious and leaves, while Betty asks why he didn’t just take the money. Simon tells her that he experienced the trip three times and says that he will not be dealing with a fourth hangover on top of the three already-present ones. "
"<s>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>  Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand—     Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him.     Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded.     Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler.     Right!     Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid?     The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The      Oktoberfest     ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated.     Betty and Simon waited.     The      Oktoberfest     , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival,      feria     ,      fiesta     to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer,      Marzenbräu     they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of      weisswurst     , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels—     All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The      Oktoberfest     is one whaleof a wingding. <doc-sep>  Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the      Oktoberfest     . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the      Oktoberfest     . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s.     But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began.     Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If      you     could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked.     The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The      Oktoberfest     starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and—     Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested.     As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him.     Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune—     Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone.     A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers.     No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice.     A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler.     Out of the question, Simonsaid.     But      why     ? Betty wailed.     Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis:      I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature.     It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have.     It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh!     Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe      Oktoberfest     in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually.     Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children.     And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary?     In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours.     I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated?     The      Theresienwiese     , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked. <doc-sep></s>","Oktoberfest, as described by Mr. Oyster, is held in Munich. It is the greatest festival the world has ever seen; each brewery opens a tremendous tent on the fairgrounds, holding five thousand customers apiece. There are millions of liters of beer, hundreds of thousands of barbecued chickens, oxen roasted over spits, millions of pairs of weisswurst sausage, and millions of pretzels. Since there are many people at Oktoberfest, it is perfect for strange people to blend in since nobody will notice. Oktoberfest is also mentioned to start on a Friday and continues for sixteen days. In Simon’s story, the seven major brewers of the Munich area are all represented by circus-like tents. Each tent contains benches and tables that can seat up to five thousand people. There is a tremendous bandstand in the tent's center, where the musicians are lederhosen-clad. The music is described to be Bavarian as well. It is described that there are many desperate waitresses as well, scrambling around and handing people masses of beer. In terms of people, it is extremely loud and crowded; tourists and German natives are all present and try to squeeze into the tents. "
"<s>  Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another.     Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel?     That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo?     Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me.     We drank to that and the fog rolledin again.     When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth.     That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none.     Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh,      Wodo     ,where'd you come from?     I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned.     Arth did something and the windowwent opaque.     That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it.     Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down.     You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him.     Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything.     All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice.     Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these.     I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water. <doc-sep>  And went out like a light.     Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother      mass     ?     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health.     My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned.     Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug.     Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy      mass     and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night?     Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember?     Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage.     Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout.     At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover.     I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag.     And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me,      nobody     should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu. <doc-sep>  There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all      lederhosen     clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed      fräuleins     darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels.     I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me.     A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them      masses     , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the      masses     overto us and then hustled on.     Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his      mass     in toast.     To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull.     He looked at me, waiting.     I came up. Mistaken, I admitted.     A      mass     or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings.     That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German?     Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that.     I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it.     Next is the Hofbräu, he said.     Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell.     My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an      Oktoberfest     and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it.     I finished my      mass     . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon.     Arth, he said. How could youhelp?     I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far?     Two, counting this one, Arthsaid.     I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on.     Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people.     The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats.     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth.     This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly.     Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable.     A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth.     Make what?     All seven tents.     Oh.     A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills.     Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation.     2183.     2183 where?     He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque.     New Albuquerque? Where'sthat?     Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent.     Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox.     Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh.     Well, we need some nourishment,I said.     There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer.     That made sense. I yelled,       Fräulein!Zwei neu bier!      <doc-sep></s>","Arth is a bald man at Oktoberfest. He is first introduced as a bald-headed drunk who sits across from Simon. They share a beer together and toast. After, Arth makes a note to write down the name engraved on his mug in a small notebook with a pencil. When Simon asks if he is German, Arth accidentally responds that his pencil is Venusian. Arth is very determined to fulfill his pilgrimage of trying every single beer at Oktoberfest, but he is disappointed that he will never make it. Simon asks him where he is from when they go to another tent, and Arth responds that he is from 2183 South St in New Albuquerque; it is situated right across Old Albuquerque. Arth also has a kind side to him, as he offers to take Simon to his hotel to rest for the night. He even offers Simon a box of pills to help with his hangover. When they go back to drinking again, he looks at Simon cautiously when the latter does not remember where he spent the night. Arth looks at Simon strangely as he goes back, even though he is initially portrayed as a friendly and kind bald man. "
"<s>  There was a knock.     Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted.     He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling.     Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir.     The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything.     Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception.     Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel?     Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible.     Why?     Why?     Yes, why?     Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born?     Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How?     Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about.     I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid.     Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently.     The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss?     Some, Betty admitted.     Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers.     Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers?     Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully.     Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man.     Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle. <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>  Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand—     Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him.     Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded.     Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler.     Right!     Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid?     The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The      Oktoberfest     ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated.     Betty and Simon waited.     The      Oktoberfest     , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival,      feria     ,      fiesta     to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer,      Marzenbräu     they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of      weisswurst     , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels—     All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The      Oktoberfest     is one whaleof a wingding. <doc-sep></s>","Simon works with Betty investigating many cases at their office in New York. He initially has a terrible headache and has to take aspirin for his hangover. He is perceptive as well, knowing who Mr. Oyster is without having seen him before and informative about time travel. However, he does show a stubborn side when he refuses Mr. Oyster’s offer no matter how much money the other man offers him. Even though he could just create a false report for Mr. Oyster, he refuses to take the job. Simon later reveals to Betty that he has already experienced going to Oktoberfest three times and has brought nothing but multiple hangovers back. In the story he tells, Simon is very friendly towards Arth and tries to help him on his pilgrimage. He ends up getting extremely hungover and goes back to New York, which then resets the entire cycle of events again. "
"<s>  Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand—     Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him.     Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded.     Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler.     Right!     Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid?     The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The      Oktoberfest     ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated.     Betty and Simon waited.     The      Oktoberfest     , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival,      feria     ,      fiesta     to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer,      Marzenbräu     they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of      weisswurst     , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels—     All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The      Oktoberfest     is one whaleof a wingding. <doc-sep>  I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the      Oktoberfest     , and I'd had it.     I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently.     The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I      would     have stayed, I told myself.     From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty.     I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time.     I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover.     Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left.     You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid.     There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar.     Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door.     I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left.     Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet.     I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster?     Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning.     This morning, I said weakly.     While Betty stared at me as thoughit was      me     that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport?     You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back.      See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed.     Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore.     I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir!     He slammed the door after himas he left.     Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe.     Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about.     I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes.     Betty stared at him. You mean—     Simon nodded, miserably.     She said, But      Simon     . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen—     I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast.     You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think!     Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that!     He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Astounding Science Fiction   June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>  There was a knock.     Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted.     He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling.     Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir.     The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything.     Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception.     Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel?     Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible.     Why?     Why?     Yes, why?     Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born?     Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How?     Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about.     I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid.     Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently.     The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss?     Some, Betty admitted.     Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers.     Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers?     Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully.     Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man.     Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle. <doc-sep></s>","The story that Simon tells relates back to Mr. Oyster’s initial request about time travelers because he is the one who time traveled. Although he calls it a funny story, the sequence of events he describes is all actual events he experiences. The entire purpose of Mr. Oyster’s request and his desire to spend a portion of his fortune is to find a time traveler and come to a conclusion that they exist. However, he fails to realize that the very person he is asking has time traveled. Since the events were repeated three times, Simon’s refusal now changes the flow of events in the near future to avoid a fourth hangover. Even though Mr. Oyster leaves angrily, Simon’s story serves as a true report of time traveling and fulfills Mr. Oyster’s request. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  <doc-sep>Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration.     It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister!     What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister?     The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land      beyond theconfines of everyday living     .     MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.     Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back!     But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!     The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway!      Agnes     , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo!     Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed.     There was quite a large fall of glass.   <doc-sep></s>","Mr. Humphrey Fownes has been pickpocketed eleven times despite the weather being good. This is because he is an uncommonly preoccupied individual and has constantly been thinking about the weather for the entire day. The first person who pickpockets him is a bogus postman who jostles him while pretending to read a postal card. The next person who pickpockets him is a pretty girl who collides with him. The next people are two men who pretend to be in a heated argument. Humphrey continuously thinks about the weather outside; this allows the police to maintain tight surveillance of him. Lanfierre is one of the people in the orange car and thinks about Humphrey Fownes being unique. He tells Lieutenant MacBride that Fownes’ house sometimes shakes, which makes the other man frown. Lanfierre considers MacBride to be a barbarian because he is cynical and cannot appreciate the peculiar nature of Fownes. He goes on to tell him that the windows all close at the same time in the house. MacBride refuses to believe him and tells him to take a rest, but all of the windows close, and the house suddenly begins to shake. They continue to observe the man; Fownes goes into his house and begins to think about his dinner with Mrs. Deshazaway. The house begins to shake more, and he decides that repairs are a must. During his dinner, Mrs. Deshazaway explains how she will never marry again. The widow is a passionate woman, and she passionately tells him he forgot salt on his potatoes during the explanation of why they cannot marry because of the air. When she continues to refuse him, Fownes brings up the idea of leaving the dome city for freedom. She tells him that if they can leave, then she will let him call her by her first name. After the date, he goes to the library, where the old librarian tries to test him with old library cards. The story then cuts to a movement meeting, where the members discuss how the old society failed and the lack of a sound foreign policy. Fownes impatiently explains that he and his future wife must leave now, to which the leader explains that it is impossible because there is no sound foreign policy. When Fownes returns to the house, he finds MacBride in the doorway with dripping hair. MacBride yells that these are not optimum dome conditions, explaining that Lanfierre is in the upstairs bedroom. The entire dome air supply is going through his bedroom, and a strange black cloud appears. Fownes recognizes this as a Kansas twister and runs towards the next house for Mrs. Deshazaway. The dome glass has begun to fall, destroying the artificial sun and optimum temperature. "
"<s>Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration.     It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister!     What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister?     The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land      beyond theconfines of everyday living     .     MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.     Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back!     But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!     The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway!      Agnes     , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo!     Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed.     There was quite a large fall of glass.   <doc-sep>Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say.     And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask      me     afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer.     I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly.     Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—     That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway.     But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I.     Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly.     That's impossible! How?     In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the      wind     blows across      prairies     ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like      that     , Mrs.Deshazaway?     Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said.     Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome.     I see.           And     , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's      vernal     and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate.           My.      Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays      warm     long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes.  <doc-sep>  Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  <doc-sep></s>","Mrs. Agnes Deshazaway is a widow who had previously married four men. All of her four husbands died; she claims that she will never marry again. However, she is also considered to be a passionate woman who does everything passionately. Whether it be talking, cooking, dressing, everything about her is passionate. She also has uncontrollable dynamism, and Fownes remarks that he has never known anyone like her. Despite her passion, she is also self-conscious of what other people think of her, telling Fownes that there is a rumor that she is a cannibal. She blames her husbands’ deaths on the air and gets angry when Fownes says that he does not mind. Despite how reluctant she is to marry Fownes, Mrs. Deshazaway also has a hopeful side to her. She is quite attentive when Fownes tells her the possibility of leaving the dome, telling him that she will allow him to marry her if the both of them can leave. "
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration.     It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister!     What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister?     The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land      beyond theconfines of everyday living     .     MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.     Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back!     But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!     The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway!      Agnes     , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo!     Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed.     There was quite a large fall of glass.   <doc-sep>He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing.     There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.     It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.     Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind.     By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set inside a dome city with an artificial sun and optimal weather conditions. Fownes first strolls down a quiet residential avenue lined with private houses. Although the weather is generally cloudless, there are light showers that make small geysers of shiny mist. His house is also noted to be located right next to Mrs. Deshazaway’s house. Inside of an orange car, Lanfierre and MacBride watch him. Fownes’ house has a porch and a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system. His downstairs closet contains the Master Mechanism. The illusion he sees is of a red sun setting brightly, marred by an occasional arcover that leaves the scent of ozone. There is a garden outside as well, and a gigantic moon hidden in a large area of the sky. Neon large roses are found in the garden, and their colors change from red to violet. Inside of his bedroom closet upstairs, there is a rainmaker. The outside world that Fownes describes to Mrs. Deshazaway, outside of the dome, is one with miles and miles of space. The real-estate monopoly has no control, and the windows blow across prairies. When Fownes goes to the library, the place is described as a shattered and depressing place. It is used very infrequently, filled with given over government publications and censored old books with holes in them. The librarian's desk has ancient library cards that are almost impossible to read. "
"<s>He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing.     There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.     It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.     Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind.     By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street.  <doc-sep>Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration.     It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister!     What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister?     The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land      beyond theconfines of everyday living     .     MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.     Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back!     But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!     The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway!      Agnes     , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo!     Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed.     There was quite a large fall of glass.   <doc-sep>   A FALL OF GLASS     By STANLEY R. LEE     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The weatherman was always right:       Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%;       occasional light showers—but of what?        The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.     It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky.     His pockets were picked eleven times.     It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets.  <doc-sep></s>","Humphrey Fownes is an interesting man who always seems to be preoccupied with the weather. Despite it being optimal conditions, he does not seem to notice anything around him even when he is being pickpocketed. He owns an assortment of machinery, capable of creating his ideal illusions and even affecting the weather outside. It is revealed that most of this is part of his plan to leave the dome. Fownes is a very persistent person as well, trying his very hardest to convince Mrs. Deshazaway to marry him even after she rejects his offer. He is stubborn, too, especially when the leader of The Movement explains that they cannot just leave the dome without a sound foreign policy. No matter what, he is determined to leave the dome and marry the widow. However, his plans seem to finally come together when MacBride and Lanfierre mess with the wheel in his house. When the dome begins to break, Fownes sees this as an opportunity and becomes excited at the thought of finally leaving this dome and living in the outside world with his future wife. "
"<s>Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside.     He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull.     Every window slammed shut.     Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No,      snug as a hug in a rug     . He went on, thinking:      The olddevils.       The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.     Outside, the domed city vanished.     It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden.     Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.     Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.      And cocktails fortwo.     Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played,      Oh, You Beautiful Doll     and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to      People Will Say We're In Love     .  <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!     Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you?      Who     are you?     I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine.     Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?     No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.     What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously.     You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity.     I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship?     The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship.     Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth.     It's useless, the ship warned us.     For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.  <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It      seemed     all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.     They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.      Insist     on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine?     His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs.     How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening.     He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly:      Thou shalt not inundate.     The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant      Singing in the Rain     . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses.     The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it.     Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him.     He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered      Cuddle Up a Little Closer     .     He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.      My dearMrs. Deshazaway.     Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward.      My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.     No.Contrived. How about a simple,      Dear Mrs. Deshazaway     . That might beit.      I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home....       Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider....     The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning      When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day     .     The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off.     At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line.     Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September.      And all the rest havethirty-one.     What a strange people, the ancients!     He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.  <doc-sep></s>","The Master Mechanism in the downstairs closet is similar to a watch being inside of a great watch case. There is a profusion of wheels surrounding it, and the Mechanism itself is a miniature see-saw that goes back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels are salvaged from grandfather’s clocks and music boxes, going around in graceful circles at a rate of 30 to 31 times an hour. However, there is one eccentric cam that goes between 28 and 29. Fownes also sets the time to seven o’clock on April 7th of any year. This Master Mechanism is significant because it is capable of showing the ideal illusion to Fownes. He uses this Mechanism to envision his ideal life outside of the dome, and it gives him the home that he hopes to see instead of the one that he is currently living inside of the dome. These illusions also motivate him to try and find a way to leave the dome with the widow. The Master Mechanism serves as a motivator for Fownes, and it allows him to envision his dreams into a form of reality. "
"<s>  SURVIVAL     TACTICS     By AL SEVCIK     ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK       The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery.     <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you.     I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....     I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would.     Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?     You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin.     His son said, Please, Dad....     No! I want to talk to someone      sane     ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,      sanity     ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....     He choked and stopped.     Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on      all     sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.     And this wasn't Iowa.       The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons....    <doc-sep></s>","Alan is walking when he hears a sudden crash that hangs sharply in the air. He loses his footing and trips, realizing that there is a possibility of blaster fighting. He hurries to mark an X on a tree for his position and heads back to the clearing of the temporary camp site. This place is home to the only eleven humans, with Alan, on the planet of Waiamea. Once Alan returns to the site, he observes the killer robots and praises Pete for getting them to work. However, when the robots turn on him, he realizes that the robots must have been programmed to pick up human brain waves. He thinks back to Penny, a girl he married three weeks ago who will be arriving with the rest of the colonists tomorrow. This becomes his reason to live against the killer robots, and he observes the killer robots. He fires into the undergrowth and berates himself for not loading fresh cells in the morning as the robot gets louder. He is injured by one and cries out as he feels himself dying. As the robot comes towards him again, he understands what it means to live and forces himself to keep walking. Alan then hugs the bank as pure electricity arches over him, sliding slowly and away from the machine above. The robot trembles and suddenly falls; this gives Alan an opportunity to tackle it. The two struggle, but Alan takes a hunting knife out and jams it into the robot. He wonders how Pete managed to create these robots so perfectly. Suddenly, he hears an approaching robot and realizes that they communicate with each other even if one of them is jammed. Alan decides to run towards the camp because he realizes that’s where the brain of the robots is located. Shortly after running, he finds himself lost because the camp has not appeared in sight yet. He tries to think back to where the camp could be and narrowly misses getting blasted by one of the killer robots. When he fires the pocket blaster, it cancels out the radio transmission from the computer to the robot; Alan sees this as an opportunity to go towards the headquarters building. His blaster suddenly quits, but he manages to hurl a pile of dirt and insects at the robots. He goes into the room quickly as the robot continues to blast. The robot aims point blank at him as he hurls himself towards the red-clad safety switch. Everything then fades to black. When Alan wakes up again, there is a young man wearing a medical insignia telling him that he had hit the switch three days ago. Suddenly, his wife appears, and they hold each other tight. "
"<s>  There  was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly.     Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy.     Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe!     Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea.      Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about.     So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head.     Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong!     Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone.     Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick.     I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth.     When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas.     They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast.     Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship!      A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh.     There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth.     For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot.     Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim.     His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness.     Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did.     The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range.     There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night.      Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning!     The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows.     The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer.     Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks.     A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness.     Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered.     In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain.     Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was.      Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man.     Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out      now     ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge.     His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop.      The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down.     Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm.     Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again.     Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood.     Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin.     Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop.     The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy?     He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness.     I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters.      In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help.     He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp.     Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness.     Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh.     The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer.     To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost.     He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun.     Peggy!     As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily.     Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away.      Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves!     Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle.     Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step.     Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry.     Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun.     No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils.     Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices.     Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast.     Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years.     The universe went black.     Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned.     A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife.     Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you.     Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom.     Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to.     For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.       This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!       This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push,      had     built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie.     Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.  <doc-sep>   PRIME DIFFERENCE     By ALAN E. NOURSE     Illustrated by SCHOENHEER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Being two men rolled out of one would solve       my problems—but which one would I be?        I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.     Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge—     It's so      permanent     .     Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.     You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.     So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.     Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped.     She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.  <doc-sep></s>","Alan is one of the men who have arrived on Waiamea. He ventures around the jungle planet but goes on the run after a programming error with Pete’s robots. Alan is thirty years old, and he married a woman named Peggy three weeks earlier. Initially, he is very afraid of death and tries to protect himself from the robots. However, he does realize his love for Peggy and sees it as a motivation to continue living. He understands what it means to live for the first time in his life, and he becomes a lot more courageous. Instead of giving up, Alan chooses to find a way to defeat the robots. He also shows himself to be intelligent, figuring out that the robots are being controlled by radio transmissions via a computer in the headquarters building. Furthermore, he is capable of using his pocket blaster and knife to defeat one of the robots, even though it could instantly kill him with a single blast. Alan is very resilient as well; he is injured and continues to run around and fight against the robots. Even when the odds are against him, his desire to be with his wife gives him the strength to continue heading towards the headquarters building and flip off the switch. "
"<s>  SURVIVAL     TACTICS     By AL SEVCIK     ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK       The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery.     <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth.     They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought.     And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled.     But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the      xopa     fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse.     And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof      xopa     -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings....     Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate.   <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and——     The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it.     It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't      get     disconnected! I told her.     We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen.     I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me      why     the elevator is disconnected?     I-am-sorry-sir-but-that——     Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses.     But now she was actually looking at      me     .     I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life.     She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life?     Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me?     She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time.     In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock.      I'm late!      I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've      done     , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even      speak     to me! Not now! Not after this!     Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout.     I'm not shouting!     Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your—     You      understand     ? I trembled with speechless fury.     She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator.      II     It was my turn to be stunned.     I just gaped at her. A—a what?     A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out.     Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out?     He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them.     That sounded impossible. He      aims     the elevator?     He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him.     Oh, I said. So it might take a while.     She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out.     Oh, no!     She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen.     For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked!     What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected?     Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War.     Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three.     The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000,      everybody     lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion.     And the Treaty of Oslo.     It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only      tactical     atomicweapons could be used. No      strategic     atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed.     Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles.     However, what with all of the      other     treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask.     And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that.  <doc-sep></s>","The killer robots work by homing in on the mind of animals’ impulses. However, due to mass production, robots are also capable of picking up human brain waves. The robots are also capable of firing beams from its blaster, as one had dissolved a cat creature’s entire lower half when it clung onto the robot. The blaster aim is almost always perfect unless the robot’s radio wave or discharge circuit is interrupted. One of its features is also a pickup device. The robots can move around quietly, too, as their original purpose was to guard the campsite. When Alan continues to escape from them, it is revealed that the robots can communicate with each other and the camp computer. The communication works by using radio waves, but it is possible to interrupt these waves using a pocket blaster. "
"<s>  SURVIVAL     TACTICS     By AL SEVCIK     ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK       The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery.     <doc-sep>I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Justthree of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I shouldhave helped her as I'm helping you.     I don't understand, Harry said. I remember people, and things, andwhere are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities....     I haven't the time, the doctor repeated, voice rising. I have to runa world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, buthow large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. Thepeople calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving memore money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyoneelse, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable toreach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should haveknown they would.     Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?     You survived, the doctor said. Your wife. A few hundred others inthe rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived becauseI lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting thecatastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living tosurvive. He laughed, high and thin.     His son said, Please, Dad....     No! I want to talk to someone      sane     ! You and Petey and I—we're allinsane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land,any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surroundedby people who are sane only because I made sure they would knownothing. He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. Now do you understand?I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Mostwere farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway.Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later.I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section ofthe country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gaveyou back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because wedon't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with bigcrops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all,      sanity     ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peaceand consigned myself, my sons, my own wife....     He choked and stopped.     Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and hisbrain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines andremembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered tocheck south and east; on      all     sides if that fence continued to curveinward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.     And this wasn't Iowa.       The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town tosave Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people andthere'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few peopleleft had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer hadcome, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wifeand his two sons....    <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and——     The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it.     It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't      get     disconnected! I told her.     We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen.     I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me      why     the elevator is disconnected?     I-am-sorry-sir-but-that——     Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses.     But now she was actually looking at      me     .     I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life.     She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life?     Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me?     She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time.     In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock.      I'm late!      I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've      done     , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even      speak     to me! Not now! Not after this!     Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout.     I'm not shouting!     Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your—     You      understand     ? I trembled with speechless fury.     She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator.      II     It was my turn to be stunned.     I just gaped at her. A—a what?     A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out.     Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out?     He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them.     That sounded impossible. He      aims     the elevator?     He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him.     Oh, I said. So it might take a while.     She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out.     Oh, no!     She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen.     For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked!     What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected?     Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War.     Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three.     The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000,      everybody     lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion.     And the Treaty of Oslo.     It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only      tactical     atomicweapons could be used. No      strategic     atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed.     Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles.     However, what with all of the      other     treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask.     And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set on the jungle planet of Waiamea. There are tall moss-shrouded trees and wrist-thick vines that hang similar to a monstrous tree-bound octopus. Fitful little plants grow straggly in the shadows of the mossy trunks, and the sun is blue. The campsite that Alan goes to houses power supplies, one central computer, and sleeping quarters. There are also a variety of animals that live on the planet. Some of these animals include feline creatures and insects attracted by the scent of blood. The planet also has a double moon when it becomes night time. When Alan escapes from the robot, he ends up in a stream of water and mud. As he runs towards the headquarters building, there is a small insect pile that he takes advantage of against the robot. Inside of the headquarters building, there is a red-clad safety switch mounted beside the computer. During Alan’s recovery, he is in a white room with a white light hanging over him. "
"<s>  There  was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly.     Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy.     Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe!     Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea.      Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about.     So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head.     Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong!     Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone.     Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick.     I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth.     When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas.     They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast.     Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship!      A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh.     There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth.     For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot.     Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim.     His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness.     Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did.     The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range.     There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night.      Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning!     The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows.     The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer.     Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks.     A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness.     Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered.     In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain.     Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was.      Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man.     Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out      now     ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge.     His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop.      The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down.     Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm.     Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again.     Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood.     Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin.     Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop.     The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy?     He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness.     I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters.      In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help.     He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp.     Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness.     Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh.     The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer.     To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost.     He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun.     Peggy!     As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily.     Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away.      Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves!     Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle.     Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step.     Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry.     Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun.     No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils.     Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices.     Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast.     Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years.     The universe went black.     Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned.     A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife.     Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you.     Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>   PRIME DIFFERENCE     By ALAN E. NOURSE     Illustrated by SCHOENHEER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Being two men rolled out of one would solve       my problems—but which one would I be?        I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.     Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge—     It's so      permanent     .     Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.     You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.     So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.     Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped.     She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.  <doc-sep>   Brightside     Crossing   by Alan E. Nourse    JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.”     Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it.     Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing.     The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.”     Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.”     “At perihelion?”     “Of course. When else?”     The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.”     “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.     “The name is Claney,” said the stranger.     There was a silence. Then: “Claney?      Peter     Claney?”     “That’s right.”     Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man—      where have you been hiding?     We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”     “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.”     “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling.     Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.”     “But you’ve      got     to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need      details     . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—”     “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.     “Of course we want to know. We      have     to know.”     “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”     “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”     Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the      planet     that whipped us, that and the      Sun     . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.”     “Never,” said Baron.     “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.  <doc-sep></s>","Alan’s realization that he must continue to live makes him become a man at thirty. Not only does it fill him with determination, but it is also what fuels him to stop the robots and end up saving everybody. He declares that no law says he has to flame-out at this age, so he continues to work his way through the jungle and against the robots. Without this realization, he would not have been motivated to use his pocket blaster against the robots and knife. Alan would also not have lived long enough to figure out the control of the robots as the computer in the headquarters building. This, itself, also lets him actually choose to go back to the area at the risk of death to find the safety button. Finally, his will to live lets him put aside his fear and goes to push the button, which ends up saving everybody. "
"<s>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime.     He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag.     More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in.     Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other.     Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch!     But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble.     Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too?     Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's—     Once more the interpreter helped him out.     The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them.     Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers!           I     like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers?     Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in?     I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies?     But how      did     you get in—Butcher?  <doc-sep></s>","On a seemingly normal flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles sits our protagonist, on his way to complete a printing order. In his initial musings, we find out that his curiosity and intuition about his fellow passengers come out of his extrasensory ability to see inside objects and human beings. The protagonist is also revealed to be able to manipulate time by stopping clocks, which he uses to his benefit with early wake-up calls. Despite his unique abilities, he laments that it renders largely useless and mundane as it often ruins surprises like Christmas gifts, requires a bit of guessing, and fails to work as gimmicks in manipulating games like Vegas slot machines. And so with his seemingly useless but curious gaze, the protagonist ponders about his seat-mate’s purse, Amos Magaffey the purchasing agent, and rifling through luggages and identifying his own. All of sudden, his musings are halted by the discovery of a bomb in one of the luggages, with a countdown timer ticking with 10 minutes or less. The flight is still 40 minutes away from its destination and so with great effort and increasing suspicion from his seat-mate, the protagonist uses his ability to stop the ticking bomb. The flight lands safely with the bomb remaining inactivated, but the protgaonist now worries between alerting authorities - which may cast suspicion upon himself - or follow the luggage and identify who picks it up. With no one initially picking up the luggage with the bomb - the little red bag - it is delivered by the flight attendant to the rear room. Soon, a young lady arrives to pick it up. It is then that the protagonist hurries over to her in hopes of warning her of the ticking time bomb. It turns out that the likely culprit of planting the bomb is the young lady’s - Julia Claremont - husband, whose motives are unknown but nevertheless unhinged. Armed with this information and a false story about the bag’s suspicion, the pair decides to approach an airport policeman and inform them of the bomb. However, as they return to where they left their bags, they find that both his and Julia’s luggages have been stolen by a strange man entering his grey vehicle. Turning to the airport policeman in reporting this stolen luggage, they are interrupted by an explosion in a grey vehicle. Shocked and somber, Julia and the protagonist inform the policeman that they no longer wish to report the stolen luggage, and the two begin to walk away from the airport. "
"<s>I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while.     She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me.     It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby.     The two bags weren't there.     I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.     See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase?     Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him.     The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.     Hey! I shouted, starting toward him.     The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.     The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases?     That he did, I said.     Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it.     The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office.     But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.     Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky.     I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome.     We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking.     She said, About those bags, and looked at me.     The officer said, Yes, miss?     I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.     I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it?     Well, the policeman said, I can't      make     you report it.     I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little?     Sure, I said.     We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens.  <doc-sep>At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me.     She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door.     It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself.     She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way.     She didn't move. She just said, Why?     For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had.     I've got to talk to you. It's very important.     The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely.     I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why.     She gave me a speculative look.     I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but—     I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel.     Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet.     Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly.     Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain.     She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop.     Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag.     During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag.     Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene.     Who is Joe?     My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there.     I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that?     I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy.     It's all right now? she asked.     I nodded. As long as we don't move it.     I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do.     We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better.  <doc-sep>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  <doc-sep></s>","Julia Claremont is a young blonde in the plane that initially peaks the protagonist's interest with her attractive profile, who later is identified as the owner of the little red bag that houses the ticking bomb. Flying from San Francisco to Los Angeles to visit her sister on her husband’s suggestion, she is the first person that the protagonist reveals his extrasensory abilities to. Despite the extraordinary tale, Claremont believes him and reveals herself that the likely culprit of the bomb to be her husband. Under the guise of putting in books for her sister to read, she surmises that her husband likely used that opportunity to plant the bomb. However, she is unable to identify the motives of her husband or more likely, she would rather not to. Despite this shock, Claremont and the protagonist devise a somewhat likely story to alert the airport policeman of her suspicious of a bomb in her luggage in order to quickly deactivate it as well as divert attention from how the protgaonist was able to sense it. On their way over to where they left their bags, they noticed them to be stolen and identified a dumpy man as the thief, heading over to his grey vehicle to take off with them. As they approach an airport policeman to report this theft instead, they are interrupted by an explosion - the bomb having gone off. Seemingly on the same page, Claremont turns to the policeman as she retracts her desire to report the theft - with the protagonist doing the same - and turns to walk away, leaving the mayhem of the explosion at the airport behind them. "
"<s>     Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no       satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and       now it had me fighting for my life in     ...     THE LITTLE RED BAG     By JERRY SOHL     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the      Chronicle     , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.     I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see.     I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader.     Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to.     So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained.     It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me      how     they hurt.     Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing.     Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else.     I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything.  <doc-sep>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  <doc-sep>I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while.     She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me.     It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby.     The two bags weren't there.     I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.     See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase?     Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him.     The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.     Hey! I shouted, starting toward him.     The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.     The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases?     That he did, I said.     Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it.     The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office.     But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.     Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky.     I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome.     We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking.     She said, About those bags, and looked at me.     The officer said, Yes, miss?     I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.     I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it?     Well, the policeman said, I can't      make     you report it.     I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little?     Sure, I said.     We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens.  <doc-sep></s>","The protagonist finds out about his extraordinary ability at an early age and quickly finds out that it is better to keep this information to himself. One incident that drove this message home occured in the fourth grade with his teacher, Miss Winters. At the time, the protagonist was sentenced to eat lunch with her as a minor punishment. After the lunch period was over, Miss Winters found herself looking for her favorite mechanical pencil, asking the class if anyone had seen it while casting a suspicious eye at the protagonist. Aiming to maintain his innocence and help out his teacher, the protagonist used his ability to find the pencil - in Miss Winters’ purse all along - and let her know. Instead, he was rewarded with a note sent home. Ever since then, he found it to be safer to keep his ability a secret. Despite his curiosities about other potential extraordinary individuals, he recognizes that revealing any information gained from his ability would only cast suspicion upon himself from the authorities. For example, had the protagonist immediately alerted a flight attendant or the authorities about a bomb in one of the luggages the moment he discovered it on the plane, intrusive questions about how he knew or suspicions about him being the one to plant it were highly likely to arise. "
"<s>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  <doc-sep>He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing.     There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.     It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.     Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind.     By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street.  <doc-sep>I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while.     She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me.     It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby.     The two bags weren't there.     I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.     See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase?     Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him.     The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.     Hey! I shouted, starting toward him.     The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.     The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases?     That he did, I said.     Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it.     The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office.     But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.     Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky.     I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome.     We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking.     She said, About those bags, and looked at me.     The officer said, Yes, miss?     I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.     I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it?     Well, the policeman said, I can't      make     you report it.     I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little?     Sure, I said.     We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens.  <doc-sep></s>","This story has two settings: first, on an airplane from San Francisco to Los Angeles and second, at the Los Angeles airport in the baggage claim and arrivals terminal. The first setting - on the airplane mid flight - is highly important to the story because it is here that the protagonist discovered the bomb in the luggage. Not only that, he discovers that bomb is on a countdown with 10 minutes remaining before detonation while the flight still has 40 minutes before arrival. It is due to this fact that the protagonist utilizes his time manipulation ability to stop the clock successfully. In the second setting, the tensions in this story continue to rise. Despite the protagonist successfully stopping the clock in the air, it appears to continue on the ground. With both the anticipation of watching to see who picks up the little red bag and dodging suspicions from the airport policeman and workers, we can imagine the hectic and panicked energy that sometimes appears in baggage claims. Additionally, an airport is filled with many people arriving and departing, which adds to the pressure the protagonist is facing in dealing with deactivating the bomb before anyone gets hurt. "
"<s>I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while.     She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me.     It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby.     The two bags weren't there.     I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.     See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase?     Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him.     The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.     Hey! I shouted, starting toward him.     The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.     The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases?     That he did, I said.     Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it.     The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office.     But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.     Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky.     I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome.     We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking.     She said, About those bags, and looked at me.     The officer said, Yes, miss?     I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.     I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it?     Well, the policeman said, I can't      make     you report it.     I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little?     Sure, I said.     We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens.  <doc-sep>The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  <doc-sep>At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me.     She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door.     It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself.     She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way.     She didn't move. She just said, Why?     For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had.     I've got to talk to you. It's very important.     The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely.     I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why.     She gave me a speculative look.     I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but—     I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel.     Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet.     Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly.     Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain.     She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop.     Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag.     During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag.     Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene.     Who is Joe?     My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there.     I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that?     I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy.     It's all right now? she asked.     I nodded. As long as we don't move it.     I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do.     We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better.  <doc-sep></s>","The protagonist’s relationship with authority figures - like the airport policeman in this story - is a double edged sword. On one hand, it is figures like the policeman who are the right figure to report his suspicions towards. They are the ones equipped with the knowledge and resources on how to deal with the bomb in the little red bag. More importantly, informing them is the right thing to do and would save the lives of everyone else at the airport. On the other hand, however, we can see that the protagonist has revealed that authority figures in the past often choose to cast suspicion upon him rather than appreciate the usefulness of the knowledge that comes about his ability. If the protagonist were to approach the policeman in a suspicious manner or reveal too much information about his know-how of the bomb, it is likely that they will suspect him to be the culprit and probe him on something he is unable to explain, and hence arrest him. The protagonist has to carefully consider the implications of either decision and try to optimize both the safety of others around him and his own. The protagonist chooses to inform the policeman of a suspicious baggage situation through the luggage’s owner, Julia Clarmeont, which would deflect any suspicion on himself. However, the bomb detonates before they are able to follow through with it. "
"<s>Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright.     Was Conrad      actually     different from the rest?     His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses?     Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal.     Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim.     The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth.  <doc-sep>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration.     Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening.     They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.     There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him!     And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.     Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain!     Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right?     All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that?     Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong!     He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks—     Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey?     Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port.   <doc-sep>class=chap/>    2.     If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, youcan appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when,looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.     Walking upright!     Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!     I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man!Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.     Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realmswithin the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had theliving creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life ofour Earth.     A man!     He might have been creeping on all fours.     He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.     He might have been entirely naked.     He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him Ifelt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but hadmy ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own racea million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life hadsomehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? Bywhat faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever beable to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?     Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell, I said. He's a friend.     Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even knowwhat sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly ormurderous.     There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take myword for it, he's a friend.     I didn't say anything, sir.     Good. Don't. Just get ready.     We're going to go      out     —?     Yes, I said. Orders.     And meet both of them? Split was at the telescope.     Both? I took the instrument from him. Both! Well!     They seem to be coming out of the ground, Split said. I see no signsof habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an undergroundcity—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis.     One's a male and the other's a female, I said.     Another hypothesis, said Split.     The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two friends.They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen ourship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparentlycome up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studiedthem through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for ahike.     The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one mightguess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold,cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of thecream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly inthe breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and thiswas matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as acircular mantle.     The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was somesort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with thesetting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a breakin the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions,his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.     The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere backof her.... Three.... Four.... Five....     Where do they come from? Split had paused in the act of checkingequipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, Imight not have made a discovery. The landscape was      moving     .     The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were aprominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when Ilooked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.     They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where thecrowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the treesthemselves were moving.     Notice anything? I asked Split.     The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city. Hegazed. They're coming from underground.     Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view ofthe moving trees.     Notice anything else unusual? I persisted.     Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they      must     befemales—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows.I wonder why?     You haven't noticed the trees?     The females are quite attractive, said Split.     I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope.Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on otherplanets—sponge-trees—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. Ifthese were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of theslope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paidno attention to them.     I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb.The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. Thelemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the malesand the soft curves of the females.     Those furry elbow ornaments on the females, I said to Split,they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, sothey pad their elbows.     Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on theirshoulders.     Are you complaining?     We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If wewere to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted theirmeeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowingthat people from another world watched. The tall leader must be makinga speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms incalm, graceful gestures.     They'd better break it up! Split said suddenly. The jungles aremoving in on them.     They're spellbound, I said. They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't youever see moving trees?     Split said sharply, Those trees are marching! They're an army undercover. Look!     I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage fora sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were asinnocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edgedwith alarm. Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh!Too late. Look!     All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the headsof the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or moreof them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a widesemicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.  <doc-sep></s>","The story starts off with the main character, Rikud, watching space from a viewport that is located on what seems to be a spaceship. Rikud is part of a group of men that live on the spaceship under a strict set of unspoken rules. Rikud then connects with other characters named Chuls and Crifer while getting a bath of health-rays, an example of the high technology in the ship. After the stars in the viewport start changing, Rikud doubts the way of living that the men have taken. He starts to doubt the fact that they have a set span of years, and that they have to live separately from the women (even though he doesn't know what women are). When the view of the viewport changes to “gardens”, Rikud begins to question more and more, and ends up finding the machine room for the ship, as well as a control center that has another viewport. Unsuccessfully convincing the others to go outside with him, Rikud becomes enraged and breaks the machine room of the ship. After realizing that Rikud has messed up the buzzers that control the actions of the people, they begin to hurt Rikud and chase him through the ship. Rikud ends up opening the door that leads outside from the control room, and they discover a new world where they can live freely with the women. "
"<s>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.     The end of the line, he grunted.     As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly.     He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.     The door closed behind him.     Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry!     Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.     Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway.     Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock.     The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.     Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall.     I put my arms around her, held her close.     Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly.     For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon.     We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship.     My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality.  <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  <doc-sep>She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.     And I heard the voice nearly every night.     It hammered away.           What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now!          One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.     She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said,       Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way.          Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.     I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office.     I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.      II     Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself.     At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did.     The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology.     Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature.     There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in.     Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.     Thanks, I said absent-mindedly.     I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for—     I switched it off.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is located in space, inside of a large spaceship. The ship has a viewport that looks outside of the ship, and is where Rikad spends most of his time. The ship also seems to have high tech, showcased in the med room. Here is where the men go to stay healthy by being showered under health rays. The ship also has a library, which is where Crifer and Rikud read about astronomy and stars, and where Rikud started to doubt more and more about their lifestyle. The ship then arrives at a planet, full of lush greenery, making Rikud more and more suspicious of the changing view. After exploring the back of the room Rikud finds a series of rooms. These rooms include both a machinery room that is full of gears and tubes as well as a control room that has a smaller viewport. The story ends in the new planet, after Rikud opened the door that led outside, knowing that they would be able to survive after he compared the new planet to the gardens that the ship had. "
"<s>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud.     Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.     But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same.     Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think.     This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out?     That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.     Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow.     I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms.     You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging.     Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case.     Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers.     Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid.     Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.     I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly.     Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning.     People grow old, Rikud suggested.     A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat.     Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words.     His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions.     He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again.  <doc-sep>Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door.     It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.     The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful.     Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink.       Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood.     Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud.     Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people.     They're women, said Crifer.     They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.     It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only.     Rikud felt at home.   <doc-sep></s>","Variability is a big part of the story. The inhabitants of the ship have always lived the same routine, the same life, and when things start to change they don’t know how to react. First, when the view of the ship starts to change, Rikud doesn’t understand what it means, and begins to think about the meaning of change. These thoughts are enhanced when Crifer told him that he had been reading Astronomy, and that stars are variable. When the ship lands on the new planet, and Rikud begins to explore, he starts to think about the variability of doors, and the meaning of going through doors and how it relates to the viewport. In the end, the change from having the buzzers to not knowing how to act is what sparks the violence of the men towards Rikud. This is due to the fact that he changed their routine, and having never experienced it, they don’t know how to react to change. "
"<s>A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please.     Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it?      There     was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers.     He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air.     Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer.     And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won.     Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go.     Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp.     But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep>Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud.     Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.     But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same.     Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think.     This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out?     That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.     Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow.     I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms.     You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging.     Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case.     Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers.     Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid.     Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.     I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly.     Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning.     People grow old, Rikud suggested.     A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat.     Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words.     His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions.     He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again.  <doc-sep></s>","At the beginning of the story, the relationship between Rikud and Chuls seemed like a mentor-mentee or like a father-son relationship. Rikud was a young forward-thinker, and Chuls was an older man who had already lived a lot and tried to guide Rikud on how he should live. As the story progresses more, Rikud seems to stray from Chuls’ guidance and tries to figure out what to think on his own. When Rikud tries to explain his reasoning, Chuls doesn’t understand because he has lived so much time inside of the ship and its routine that he can’t seem to doubt it. This led to Rikud getting mildly violent at Chuls because he couldn’t understand why Chuls didn’t believe him. "
"<s>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor.     What's in here? he demanded.     It's a door, I think, said Crifer.     I know, but what's beyond it?     Beyond it? Oh, you mean      through     the door.     Yes.     Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door.     I will, said Rikud.     You will what?     Open it. Open the door and look inside.     A long pause. Then, Can you do it?     I think so.     You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.     No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think.     Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine.     He missed the beginning, but then:       —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door—       Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't.     When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a      throb-throb-throb     which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.     Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning.     Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.     Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance.     And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle.     Then he trembled.     What would he do out in the garden?     He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.     Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.     By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden.     It was so big.  <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  <doc-sep></s>",The viewport is one of the most important parts of the story. Rikud goes to the viewport in order to get a break from his routine life inside the ship. The changing stars that he could see through the viewport is what inspired Rikud to think more about the changes going on around him and to explore hhhhhhhe ship. Ultimately it is the viewport that showed him the possibility of a new life on the planet. The viewport essentially lead Rikud to breaking the engine room and to opening the door of the ship. 
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","Noork is in a tree on a moon named Sekk, watching a woman walk through the jungle.  When they speak, they learn that Noork has been living with her brother, Gurn.  With this introduction, they begin to travel together.The woman explains that she had been captured by slavers in the past but had escaped.  The escapees were then followed by the Misty Ones, and the woman was the only one who made a complete escape.  Noork states that he will visit the island where the Misty Ones live one day, but the woman does not answer. When Noork turns back to her, she has disappeared, and Noork is attacked.  He hides in the trees and spies the Misty Ones below.  He throws fruit down on them until he can easily see them by the stains the fruit makes on their clothing, then attacks with arrows.  The Misty Ones flee except for one who has been killed with an arrow.  Noork takes the robe of this one and sets off toward the Temple of the Skull, the home of the Misty Ones, to free the woman.Noork encounters Ud, his friend, near the lake, and tells him to tell Gurn that the MIsty Ones can be trapped and skinned.  He asks Ud to tell Gurn that Noork is going to save Gurn's father's woman woman called Sarna.Noork paddles across the lake and sneaks close to the Temple of the Skull.  He falls asleep in a tree and is awakened by the conversation of two slaves talking about Sarna.  After one slave leaves, he speaks with the other slave, Rold, and tells him that he is there to rescue Sarna.  Rold, realizing that the Misty Ones are only mortal men, tells Noork that Sarna is held in a pit beneath the temple with the other young women slaves.Noork finds the entrance to the pit but is blocked by two guards, whom he kills.He then proceeds to the cage where the young women are held, where he is confronted by a priest.  He fights the priest, kills him, and frees Sarna.  They go back to the field, get Rold, and the three of them flee into the jungle.  They plan to go for a boat and leave, but are caught by Misty Ones waiting to trap them.  At this time, Dr. Von Mark, a Nazi from Earth, confronts Noork, who is also Stephen Dietrich, an American pilot who has been hunting him and had tracked him through space to Sekk.  Due to Dietrich/Noork's amnesia, he remembers none of this.  Just as Von Mark is about to kill him, Gurn and other men from Wari kill the Misty Ones with arrows and Noork and the others are freed.  Noork states that he can now live in peace with Gurn and Sarna in the jungle."
"<s>  Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.     The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded.     I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'.     He says he put that on there himself, said the captain.     Stevenson shook his head. His      lawyer     says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.     He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove?     I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?     They were defective, said Hanks promptly.     All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk?     How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do      they     say?     They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere.     The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove?     I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.     What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me?     All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see.     And all      I     know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so.     And what made it so hot?     Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou      think     made it hot?     All of a sudden?     He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.     How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately.     How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?     But there's no explanation— started Stevenson.     What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just      gave     you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember?     I remember, said Stevenson.     Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson....     The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the      Daily News     :     Dear Mr. Editor,     You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten.      III     Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD.     The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war.     The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances.     The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through.     Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.     Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited.     At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started.     At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson.     They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off.     One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us?     Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way.     The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask.     Who cares? You go around the other way.  <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds.     She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool.     She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.       She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone.     Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think.     There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy.     Where was he?     Who was Swarts?     What was the purpose of the tests he was being given?     It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers.     It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass.     This might be somewhere in Africa....     He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing.     Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.     Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its      alter ego     of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend....     Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe.     Last night Venus hadn't been there.     Venus was a morning star just now....       Just now!       He realized the truth in that moment.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins in thick jungle on Sekk, which we are told is a second moon which retains a breathable atmosphere around a lake surrounded by eleven jungled valleys.  In this way, it is implied that Sekk is a second moon of Earth.In the jungle, we meet Noork and a young woman named Sarna.  They begin traveling together through the jungle, but soon Sarna disappears and Noork is attacked.  This is our first encounter with the Misty Ones, who blend in with the jungle foliage.  Noork defeats the Misty Ones and continues toward the lake and island where they make their home.Noork briefly encounters his friend Ud near the marshy lowlands that lie between the jungled valleys on Sekk and the central Lake of Uzdon, but this area is not described.  When Noork reaches the central island in the lake, we encounter a non-jungle landscape for the first time.  Noork finds himself in a cultivated field, and sees the shape of a huge white skull about half a mile away.  After speaking with an enslaved man and learning where Sarna is being held, Noork continues toward the skull.The skull is a dome of white stone, with black stone for eye-sockets and nose-holes.  The interior contains a raised altar made of precious metals--gold, silver, and brass--and precious stones, as well as stone images of the two gods the Misty Ones worship.  Below the altar is the caged area where the young women are held; Noork detects the entrance to this area by its foul odor.  The room where the young women are kept is dimly lit by only two torches, very damp with pools of dirty water all around, and holds at least twenty young women.  They have nothing to sit on but rotten grass mats.  In contrast to the enslaved men who are out in the cultivated fields and open air, the young women are in a desperate situation indeed.  They can only sit in their foul, rotting prison and wait to be sacrificed."
"<s>  Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  <doc-sep>Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  <doc-sep>A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered.     I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible.     I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully.     Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here.     Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs.     Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense.     His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest.     And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward.     Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.     As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.     Gurn! cried Noork.     A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.     The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend.     Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible.     He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly.     No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died.     He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle.     It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna.   <doc-sep></s>","We first hear Gurn's name mentioned by Noork in his initial meeting with Sarna.  He tells her that he has been living with the wild Vasads of the jungle with Gurn, his friend and their chief.  Noork goes on to say that Gurn is an exile from the walled city of Grath and asks Sarna if she knows why this is.  Sarna says that her brother says they should no longer enslave Zurans they capture from other valleys.  In this way, their relationships with Gurn build a bridge between them, allowing them to consider a relationship with one another.Gurn is next mentioned when Noork encounters his friend Ud near the central lake of Sekk, the moon they are on.  Noork asks Ud to go to their mutual friend Gurn and pass on a message.  Noork asks Ud to tell Gurn that the Misty Ones can be trapped and skinned.  When Ud wonders why anyone would want to do such a thing, Noork tells him that Noork is trying to save Gurn's father's woman woman, as he describes Gurn's sister Sarna.Gurn then arrives as something between a hero and a deus ex machina at the very end of the story.  Noork, Sarna, and Rold, an enslaved man who helped Noork free Sarna, are about to be murdered by Doctor Von Mark and the Misty Ones, when Gurn and his allies arrive and shoot the enemy full of arrows, saving all their lives.  Gurn reveals that he received Ud's messages and they were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across the lake and stealing their robes so they could come to Noork's rescue.  Without Gurn, Noork and Sarna would never have traveled together in the first place, nor would they have been rescued at the end."
"<s>Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  <doc-sep>  Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep></s>","Enslavement and freedom as themes run throughout the story.  When Noork and Sarna first meet each other in the opening scene, one of the ways they decide to trust one another is because of their mutual relationships with Gurn, a third character.  Gurn has been exiled from the city of Grath because he says that his people should no longer enslave the captured Zurans from other valleys of Sekk.  In the next scene, we learn that Sarna, Gurn's sister, was kidnapped by one group of slavers, escaped them with four others, and only narrowly escaped capture by a second group of slavers, the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull, who captured the other four of her group.  Noork tells her that one day he will visit the island of Misty Ones who took her friends.  At this time, he realizes that Sarna has disappeared, and he is attacked by the Misty Ones, though he is able to fight them off.During Noork's travels to the island of the Misty Ones, we learn his backstory: he is American pilot Stephen Dietrich, and he arrived on the moon of Sekk by following Doctor Karl Von Mark, last of the Nazi criminals at large.  Dietrich's ship had crashed on Sekk, robbing him of his memory.  In the conflict between the Allies and Nazis, we again see the conflict between enslavement and freedom:  the Nazis forced those they considered racially impure into prison camps where they were either murdered outright or forced to engage in labor under inhumane conditions until they died; the Allied forces were a hope of freedom for these imprisoned, enslaved people.Noork spies on enslaved men in the fields outside the temple of the Misty Ones and hears them gossiping about Sarna.  The older man suggests that their life is not so bad, but the younger man protests and states that one day he plans to escape.  Noork approaches the younger man to find out where Sarna is being held and promises to take him along when he and Sarna escape.  Noork then fights off multiple guards and a priest in order to free Sarna from the pit where she is held, which is dank and full of rotting grass mats and little light.While the story touches on themes of enslavement and freedom, it does not engage with them fully.  The dungeon where the enslaved young women is held is described in foul terms, but Noork does not seem to free all the young women from their prison.  That may happen as a result of Gurn's final attack on Doctor Von Mark and the Misty Ones, but Noork escapes only with Sarna and Rold.  Rold is unhappy with being enslaved, not because he is being harmed or others are, but because he is not free to mate with attractive young women like Sarna.  While the story should not need to spell out every reason why enslavement is wrong, it takes a very superficial approach to a deeply painful issue."
"<s>Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>  Raiders of the Second Moon     By GENE ELLERMAN     A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,     and had brought him to this tiny world—to     write an end to his first existence.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little.     Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.     In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger.     Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief.     For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud.     New York, he said, good ol' New York.     The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned.     Tako, woman, he greeted her.     Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave?     A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted      narl     last night when it attacked you.     Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger.     Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.     Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you?     I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend.     The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?     That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?     Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys.     Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply.  <doc-sep></s>","The Misty Ones are a group of highly feared beings, thought to be supernatural in some way at the beginning of the story because of their ability to remain unseen.  Noork, however, is able to catch a glimpse of the bottom of one of their feet from his vantage point high in a tree and begins to pelt the area where he believes they are with fruit.  After this, he can see their outlines and that they are wearing robes with hoods, and he ceases to be afraid and attacks with arrows, killing one of the Misty Ones.  He disrobes this man, who is described as heavily scarred on his face, having a low forehead, with more hair on his body and less golden skin than other men of Zuran.  Once Noork is sure that the Misty Ones are not supernatural, he decides to pursue them in an attempt to rescue Sarna, sister of his friend Gurn, who has been kidnapped by them.Noork spreads the word to his friend Ud that the Misty Ones are not demons and can be trapped and skinned and lets Ud know of his rescue mission for Sarna.  He also tells Rold, an enslaved man on the island of the Misty Ones and the priests of Uzdon (the god who demands sacrifice of young women).  Rold decides he will help Noork with his rescue mission in exchange for Noork's promise to rescue him as well--realizing that he is imprisoned by men and not demons has allowed him to dream that he can kill his captors and be free.When Noork fights a priest of Uzdon in order to free Sarna, he learns that the priests not only have the robes of concealment the Misty Ones have, they also have transparent masks that allow them to see through that concealment.  It allows him to anticipate their ambush at the end of the story, though not quite soon enough to stop it.  Gurn, though, has received his message and acted on it.  He has been capturing and skinning Misty Ones who have crossed the lake and he and his warriors ambush the Misty Ones and priests in return, freeing Noork and his friends.  With the realization that the Misty Ones are men with special cloaks rather than demons with supernatural powers, their mystique evaporates and everyone they have terrorized is willing to attack them.  Characters unwilling to battle demons are unafraid to attack men."
"<s>   GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  <doc-sep></s>","John Willard and Larry Dobbin are astronauts who have been in space for four years on the rocket Mary Lou, and as Dobbin is dying, he regrets that he will not see Earth again. Willard assures him that they will make it back, but he knows that they will never make it back because their ship was damaged by a meteor. Although the ship can still carry out functions to support life, it is not navigable. After Willard helps Dobbin look at the stars one more time, Dobbin cries out that it’s true—when an astronaut is dying, the Ghost Ship comes for him. Willard recycles Dobbin’s body but feels regretful about it. He longs to see the Earth again and walk on it, but he knows this will never happen and feels intensely lonely. After two years, a strange thing happens. Willard is looking at the stars, and it seems that they are winking at him. Something seems to be moving toward him, and it turns out to be an ancient ship. Willard’s gauges do not register the ship’s presence although he sees it with his own eyes, and Willard realizes that it is the Ghost Ship coming for him. Strangely enough, however, the ship turns away and moves away from him.Seven years later, a newspaper on Earth publishes a story that Willard’s son, J. Willard II, plans to build a larger version of his father’s ship, the Mary Lou II, in memory of his father, but Willard Sr. is unaware of this. He continues to experience excruciating loneliness and dreams about his life on Earth—the people he knew, the sounds, and the cities. One day a giant rocket ship comes alongside the Mary Lou, and Willard is thrilled that he has been discovered. But the vessel turns away and leaves. Willard notices that he can see starlight through the ship and realizes it is the Ghost Ship. One day he sees another ship and, at first, fears the Ghost Ship has returned. The new ship looks solid, though, and it contacts him, addressing the Mary Lou by name. Willard believes that this ship will take him back to Earth and eagerly boards it. Willard is kept drugged for a while but eventually is alert enough to speak with the captain. When Willard asks when they will return to Earth, the captain explains that they cannot return because matter in space loses its mass and energy until nothing is left. If they tried to return to Earth, they would pass through it. Willard then realizes he is on the Ghost Ship, and he is one of its Ghosts.  "
"<s>   GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep></s>","Both Dobbin and Willard have memories of Earth that sadden them and make them lonely. As Dobbin is dying, he remembers his life on Earth, and his greatest regret is that he will never see it again. Dobbin is satisfied with his life and experiences, but his Earth-loneliness prevents him from dying a happy man. Willard is also pained by his memories of Earth and what he has lost and will never have again. Alone in space, Willard considers his memories the only things of value to him. Because his memories cause him so much pain, Willard tries to ignore them or remove them, but they return in his dreams. His memories in his dreams are full of sensory details and other details that he did not notice when he was on Earth. However, when Willard is drugged and sleeping on the Ghost Ship, his dreams are of memories from the years he spent on the Mary Lou, and his dreams about people that he knew are unpleasant. Willard believes that if he could walk on Earth one more time, he would die a happy man."
"<s>   GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  <doc-sep>The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed.     When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain.     Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth!     Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life.     Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the      Mary Lou     .     Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship.     But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable.     Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships?     The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars.     There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away.     Deep within him a faint voice cried,       It's come—for me!      but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space?     He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again.     But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter.     Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him.  <doc-sep></s>","John Willard considers Larry Dobbin his best friend. They are both astronauts in a rocket ship that was on a voyage past Pluto to explore a possible planetoid. Their ship was struck by a meteor and can no longer fly, so they are drifting through space. When the story opens, Dobbin is dying. His breathing is erratic, and his fingertips are black. Dobbin has accepted his impending death, but Willard tries to convince Dobbin that he is not dying and that they will return to Earth. Dobbin longs to return to Earth and regrets that he will not see it again. He remembers his first space flight as Willard raises him to look out the port window at the stars. Before he dies, Dobbin declares that the Ghost Ship has come for him. He points to it out the window, but Willard does not see it. Willard believes that Dobbin has gone mad. Dobbin then dies. Dobbin is mentioned in a newspaper account thirteen years after the men left on their voyage when Willard’s son builds a larger version of their ship called the Mary Lou II. The article indicates they were never heard from again. "
"<s>   GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  <doc-sep>The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed.     When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain.     Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth!     Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life.     Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the      Mary Lou     .     Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship.     But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable.     Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships?     The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars.     There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away.     Deep within him a faint voice cried,       It's come—for me!      but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space?     He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again.     But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter.     Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him.  <doc-sep></s>","There are legends and tall tales about the Ghost Ships, told mainly by drunken men and professional storytellers. Willard remembers that there are stories on Earth about Ghost Ships that sail the Seven Seas. The story goes that the crews of Ghost Ships have broken a particular law, and their punishment is to roam forever. The Ghost Ship in space is said to be the home of spacemen who could not return to Earth. When Dobbin is dying, he claims to see the Ghost Ship and that it has come for him, but when Willard looks for the ship, he does not see it. Later, when Willard sees the Ghost Ship for himself for the first time, he tries to convince himself it is not really there. He remembers the stories about oceangoing Ghost Ships and reasons that there could also be Ghost Ships in space. When the Ghost Ship turns to leave, Willard is almost sorry to see it go because he has been so lonely. When the Ghost Ship appears to Willard for the second time, it has pulled alongside the Mary Lou, and Willard thinks it is a real ship. Only when the Ghost Ship abruptly speeds away and Willard sees stars shining through it does Willard realize it was the Ghost Ship, and he believes it is mocking him. With his third sighting of the Ghost Ship, Willard immediately thinks it is the Ghost Ship but then convinces himself it is not when it messages him. After he is on the ship, he realizes it is indeed the Ghost Ship and that he is now a Ghost. "
"<s>   GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  <doc-sep>The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed.     When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain.     Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth!     Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life.     Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the      Mary Lou     .     Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship.     But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable.     Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships?     The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars.     There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away.     Deep within him a faint voice cried,       It's come—for me!      but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space?     He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again.     But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter.     Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him.  <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item:           Arden, Rocketport     —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship      Mary Lou     under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called      Mary Lou II     , in memory of his father.     Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him.     Willard, master and lone survivor of the      Mary Lou     , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone.     And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth.     In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists.     Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone.     Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason.     Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew:     Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you!     And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind.     Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the      Mary Lou     . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star      through     the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him.     Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it.     How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care.  <doc-sep></s>","Larry Dobbin and John Willard are astronauts together in space on a mission to explore a planetoid beyond Pluto. When a meteor damages their rocket, they both realize they will never return to Earth. Willard considers Dobbin the best friend he has ever had friend, and when Dobbin is dying, Willard tries to keep his spirits up by telling him that he has a new plan for a way for them to return to Earth. When Dobbin wants to see the stars one last time before he dies, Willard raises him so that he can see them out the port window. When Dobbins sees the Ghost Ship and says that it has come for him, Willard assures him that nothing is there. After Dobbin dies, Willard holds a wake for him for two days before he recycles Dobbin’s body because the ship can still break down waste and refuse to create food and air. Afterward, Willard regrets disposing of Dobbin’s body. With Dobbin gone, Willard experiences great pain and loneliness. Eventually, Willard sees the Ghost Ship and knows that his friend was right about it."
"<s>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   <doc-sep>   AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door.     TRAVELERS AID BUREAU     Murra Foray, First Counselor     It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.     With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.     Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.     A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation.     Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information.     We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them.     Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor.     You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen.     Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.     Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business.     The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.  <doc-sep></s>","As the story opens, Ambassador Magnan briefs Councillor Retief on the Terrestrial Embassy’s request for sponsorship of youth groups on the planet Fust.  Councillor Retief is not interested. Magnan specifically suggests that Retief sponsor the group SCARS (Sexual, Cultural and Athletic Recreational Society), and warns Retief that the rival Groaci may fill any void. Retief suggests researching the youth groups before giving them money. Magnan is dismissive. Retief is still not interested, and leaves to go look at plans for a new passenger liner being built by the Fustians. Retief takes a flat-car to the ship yard and meets Whonk, who is a shipyard clerk. He asks to see the blueprints, which he photographs. He and Whonk chat about the attitude of the youth, and Whonk blames it on their new leader, Slock, who hangs around with Yith, a member of the Groaci embassy.Later, while Retief is on his way home to dress for a dinner and press event organized by Magnan, two Fustian youths threaten him on the bus. Retief realizes that they were after his photos, which showed that the ship under construction was a battle cruiser, not a passenger liner. He also realizes that Whonk may be in danger. Retief escapes the youths and races back to the shipyard to find that Whonk has been dragged off and tied up in a warehouse. From the Fustian’s wounds, Retief realized that they had tried to kill him.Retief figures out that the Fustian youths have taken some titanite, an explosive, over to a ship called the Moss Rock, which would be full of dignitaries later. He and Whonk race over there and encounter more Fustians, and win a fight with them, effectively breaking up the Groaci-backed plot to blow up the ship. Retief arrives at the banquet a little late, and exchanges a few words with Magnan, who proceeds to make the Fustians miserable with his cultural insensitivity. A few minutes later, the SCARS leader, Slock, arrives. Retief reveals Slock’s plan: Slock, backed by the Groaci, was planning to take over Fust. The Groaci tried to frame the Terrestrial Embassy for the plot.Slock escaped. Retief went back toward the Moss Rock, where Whonk tackled Slock, and Retief accosted Yith. Whonk wanted to take revenge on Yith for attacking him earlier, but Retief instead negotiated a deal in which Yith, who had mastered removing the Fustian carapace surgically, which would be a great relief to Whonk and other elders, would agree to do so in return for not being ritually dismembered. Just as this agreement was completed, Slock tried to escape again, but Whonk dumped him on the Moss Rock, and set the autopilot for Groaci, still full of titanite. It blew up on the way there.Magnan wrested what he could, diplomatically speaking, from the wreckage of the youth sponsorship program and moved on to plans to sponsor Senior Citizens Groups."
"<s>   AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  <doc-sep>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   <doc-sep>The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:     Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence.     Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback.     Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.     Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off.     Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.     That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up.     There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.     I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me.     The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.     So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files.     And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm.     But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything.     At least not willingly....     Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard.  <doc-sep></s>","Fustians somewhat resemble gigantic, intelligent snapping turtles, and like turtles, start life as eggs. During their youth and adolescence, they are relatively agile and have no shells (unlike turtles). It is notable how many Fustian elders take a dim view of adolescents, with the Minister of Fust himself saying that the Youth should be “kept penned with the livestock until they grow a carapace to tame their irresponsibility.”When Fustians mature, they develop an enormous, horny carapace which they are obliged to carry around on their backs for the rest of their lives, which last over a thousand years. The carapaces cause the adult Fustians to be slow-moving, and they take up a lot of space – hence their public transportation consists of flat-cars instead of buses with seats. Unfortunately, not much is known by off-worlders of Fustian females.Like most intelligent races, Fustians enjoy music. The frequencies at which their music is played are subsonic, and therefore not audible to the human ear. Likewise, their ears are quite sensitive to high frequencies, such as those produced by tapping on a crystal glass with a spoon. This is not just unpleasant, but painful to Fustian ears."
"<s>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   <doc-sep>   AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  <doc-sep>   THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  <doc-sep></s>","Magnan is the Ambassador to Fust, and thus is Retief’s boss. He is also a spineless, political wind-sniffing clod. His main role, or function in the story is as a foil to the hero, Retief. Magnan’s clueless blathering sets up Retief’s dry, sarcastic remarks – remarks which, if Magnan were not so oblivious, would perhaps offend Magnan to the point of firing Retief. While Retief is running around Fust getting into fist fights and spoiling terrorists’ plots, Magnan is back at the office shuffling whatever papers came in from the Terrestrial Embassy that day, implementing the “program of the week.” Magnan is flat. Retief is three-dimensional.Magnan’s main contributions to the story are to: 1.	Ignore Retief’s advice to check out the Fustian youth organizations before sponsoring them, which leads to the potential for the Terrestrial Embassy being embarrassed by the Groaci attempts to frame SCARS for the explosion they hoped to cause aboard the Moss Rock. 2.	Set up the banquet to honor SCARS where he grossly insults his Fustian counterparts by having the hired musicians play a dirge, the “Lament of Hatching,” and then shattering their ear drums by tapping on his wine glass.3.	Whip up a meringue of obfuscation to hide the fiasco of the youth organization sponsorship program and try to make himself smell like a rose in the process4.	Start a new sponsorship program for Fustian Senior Citizens.At no point in the story does he do anything useful at all."
"<s>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   <doc-sep>   AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  <doc-sep>Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!     The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now.     Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—     Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!     Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk.     It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere.     Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity!     No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached....     I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?     But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one!     Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment.     I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk....     Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—     Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour.     Be a sport, said Retief.     Well.     It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world.     Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the      Moss Rock     .     Hey, Retief called. Where are you going?     I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it.     Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite!     Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance.     Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship.     I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop.     Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.     What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to—     We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards.     You mean—     The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep.  <doc-sep></s>","Whonk is a very old Fustian who works as a clerk at the shipyards. He meets Retief when Retief comes to to inquire about seeing plans for the new passenger liner. Whonk is neutral and correct, but not especially friendly. His partnership, and it seems fair to say, friendship with Retief really begins when Retief returns to the shipyard to look for Whonk and finds that the Fustian thugs who tried and failed to kill him, due to his thick, mature skin and shell, have left him tied up, in an undignified position on his back.Retief apologizes for putting him in danger, and gets the old Fustian back on his feet. Whonk is so grateful that he tells Retief, “My cows are yours,” a heartfelt, traditional Fustian expression of gratitude. Whonk is extremely angry about what the Fustian Slock and his gang have done to him, and throws in his lot with Retief. Thereafter, every time Retief is in physical danger from Fustians, Whonk is right there to help. At the end of the story, Whonk steps in again to help Retief capture Yith, a member of the Groaci diplomatic mission, and Slock the rebel adult Fustian with no carapace. His desire for vengeance against these two nearly overwhelms his good sense. He puts Slock on the Moss Rose with the titanite that Slock had intended to use against Fustian politicians, and sets the rocket to blast off to Groaci, knowing that it would below up before it got there. But Retief manages to settle him down enough not to take Yith apart piece by piece, by getting the Groaci to do something that would make Whonk’s life a lot easier and more pleasant: surgically remove his carapace. Whonk is steadfast, reliable, implacable – a good sidekick for Retief."
"<s>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   <doc-sep>   AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door.     TRAVELERS AID BUREAU     Murra Foray, First Counselor     It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.     With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.     Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.     A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation.     Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information.     We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them.     Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor.     You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen.     Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.     Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business.     The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set entirely on the planet Fust. The native inhabitants of Fust are described as something similar to snapping turtles that walk on their hind legs, and much of the imagery used by Fustians when speaking revolves around themes of the sea and mud. Fust is a peaceful enough world that they don’t even really have much of a police force, despite the rowdy and rebellious behavior of Fustian youths. Not much is known about the physical characteristics of the planet, such as the proportion of sea and dry land. We know there must be oceans, because the warehouse where Wonk was tied up and left was full of bales of kelp, a sea product. The city of the story is also near a sea, whose breezes make it a bit cool at certain times of day.The city where all the action takes place is an important city, perhaps the capitol. It is full of diplomatic missions from all planets, and is apparently a place of some Fustian learning and culture, given that it has musicians for hire. There is a space ship building operation right outside the city, which can be reached by public transport that consists of flat open wagons. This is practical for the unwieldy shape of the adult Fustian, if not too comfortable for a human.One of the most interesting things about Fust, and the hardest for an outsider to understand, is their assorted suns and moons. Fust is lit by a blue sun called Alpha and a yellow sun known as Beta, and three moons orbit Fust. There is also a third sun, unnamed, so that there are three “noons” on Fust."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map.     We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come.     Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D.     Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore.     The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel.     What—what is the population of Minos? she asked.     He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly.     Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired.     Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied.     They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.     I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them.     Joke? Max asked, bewildered.     June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us.     She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead?     He indicated her with a smile. Like you.     June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes.     In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme?     Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable.     For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague.     Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.     Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look.       Plague.     What was the disease? Hal Barton asked.     Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it.     You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.     Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow.     Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton.     No.     Any other diseases?     Not a one.     Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!  <doc-sep></s>","The Plague takes place in the modern United States of America. The story follows several government workers as they navigate a sudden and mysterious epidemic. Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud, mostly referred to as Andy, works at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Welfare Protection located in the Pentagon. Corporal Bettijean Baker, his right-hand woman and new lover, picks up the phone one day, and then chaos ensues. A switchboard is put in the hallway to help receive the hundreds of calls being made to their office. This sudden influx of calls, attention, people, and disease leave the main characters feeling overwhelmed and desperate. Since the new lieutenant had not arrived (post Colonel Patterson’s retirement), Sergeant Andy is effectively in charge as a noncom, though not everyone is happy about that. Andy pushes their worries aside, and continues working. Despite the spread, no fatalities have been reported, and infections are random. No trend has been established yet, but they are searching desperately for one. Bettijean goes through reports with Sergeant Andy, revealing all she’s uncovered. It’s affecting workers, artists, and poets, but not necessarily those who work in government, or as doctors or businessmen. The water systems are ruled out, as well as wind and food. Bettijean and Andy are left with nothing, except the possibility of biological terrorism. Finally, Andy orders Bettijean to halt all in-coming calls, and redirect their attention to all hospitals. Despite their best efforts, no conclusion can be reached. The colonel reappears in Andy’s office, followed by two officers. He throws a newspaper down on his desk, proclaiming that this epidemic was allegedly caused by the Russians, and that all the authorities are baffled. It is hinted that the Colonel commissioned this article to throw doubt on Andy’s authority. Andy defends his employees and the work they’ve been doing. The Colonel forces Andy and Bettijean out of office, and Andy lets him, kissing Bettijean on the way out. Suddenly, the general walks in and gives Andy back his job, while telling him the news from Intelligence. The Iron Curtain’s not sent word for almost two days. Only a coded message that could have been about the epidemic. Andy promises to work hard again, and the general assigns the colonel and his two men to the switchboard in the hall. After brainstorming about potential causes, Janis, another employee, enters the room and puts another stack of reports down. Small college towns, newly engaged girls, poets, all these people have been infected. Janis falls to the floor, and everyone rushes to her. She’s been infected with the disease, and they question her about her activities for the past 12 hours. It’s revealed finally that she wrote a letter to her mother, and Andy finally figures it out. The poison was in the stamps. He lets his higher-ups know, and Janis is carted off to safety. Bettijean and Andy are given a 30-day vacation to relax and explore their relationship further. "
"<s>    THE PLAGUE         By TEDDY KELLER         Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States!         Illustrated by Schoenherr      Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.     Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection.     All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.     I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge.     But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg.     Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out.     But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word.     Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through.     Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office.  <doc-sep>It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.     Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.     Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.     RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled.     Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely.     Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation.     Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder.     Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that.     A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto—     All right, Andy said sharply.     For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work.     Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and—     Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man—     That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action.     Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't—     Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep.     But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from—     Corporal! the colonel roared.  <doc-sep>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel?     The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just—     I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone.     But, general, I—     The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?     Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess.     The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared.     Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.     I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works.     A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it.     It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within.     The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?     Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him.     Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation.     The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here.     But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned—     The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work.  <doc-sep></s>","Ten days prior to the epidemic, Colonel Patterson retired. He was Sergeant Andy McCloud’s superior, and his replacement has yet to show up. Andy theorizes that the replacement for the lieutenant got caught up in all the red tape, but, at the end of the day, the newly-coined Germ War Protection needed a leader. And Andy was stepping up to the job. 	He had worked at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Coordinator for two years prior to the epidemic. He knew the ins and outs of the place, so, despite being a noncom, he was truly the best for the job. 	One of his colleagues, Corporal Bettijean Baker, had picked up the phone two days prior, and suddenly their whole words changed. An epidemic was sweeping the nation, infecting random people left and right with no underlying cause or trend, and, despite the absence of fatalities, panic was ensuing. Though some of the officers disapprove of Andy’s noncom position, he continues working tirelessly with his colleagues to try and figure out the cause of this terrifying disease. 	He and Corporal Bettijean Baker brainstorm throughout the story, desperately searching for a trend or place of infection. They realize that artists, poets, college students, and workers are the ones being infected; not necessarily doctors, dentists, and government employees. They try to figure out what activities each group does that could possibly have been the cause of their infection. They quickly rule out the disease traveling through water, wind, and food. And, later on, it’s revealed that the disease is not contagious. Bettijean and Andy put their heads together and think. 	Their time spent together brainstorming was also filled with flirtatious moments. Andy, with his freckles and messy hair, and Bettijean with her jet-black hair, share a kiss or two throughout the story. 	After exhausting themselves, Andy orders all the girls to redirect all calls to go out, not in. They are to focus on hospitals and relief crews, to discover more on who the virus is infecting. He and Bettijean are almost fired by the disgruntled colonel, who came with two replacements. Thankfully, just as Andy kisses Bettijean, the general walks in and dismisses the colonel. He reinstates Andy and Bettijean to their former and rightful positions, before telling them that the Iron Curtain has gone silent, except for one coded message from two days before, possibly hinting at the epidemic. 	After the brass left, Bettijean and Andy brainstormed some more, looking through new reports brought in by Janis, a colleague. Janis soon collapses, and it is revealed that she’s been infected. Andy questions her and soon discovers the transmitter of the virus. Stamps! He relates the news to his higher-ups, and rejoices with Bettijean. They are given a 30-day furloughed vacation together, leaving the reader with a future of romance and hope. "
"<s>It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.     Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.     Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.     RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled.     Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely.     Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation.     Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder.     Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that.     A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto—     All right, Andy said sharply.     For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work.     Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and—     Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man—     That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action.     Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't—     Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep.     But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from—     Corporal! the colonel roared.  <doc-sep>    THE PLAGUE         By TEDDY KELLER         Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States!         Illustrated by Schoenherr      Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.     Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection.     All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.     I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge.     But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg.     Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out.     But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word.     Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through.     Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office.  <doc-sep>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel?     The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just—     I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone.     But, general, I—     The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?     Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess.     The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared.     Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.     I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works.     A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it.     It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within.     The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?     Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him.     Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation.     The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here.     But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned—     The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work.  <doc-sep></s>","Sergeant Andrew McCloud is Corporal Bettijean Baker’s superior, both in rank and position at the Germ War office. They have worked together before, perhaps for the two years that Andy has been stationed there. Their relationship ranges from colleagues to lovers, sharing kisses at work or gentle shoulder touches, while still maintaining a professional atmosphere. 	They begin the story extremely stressed, due to the sudden epidemic, and use their combined brain power to find the root cause of the disease. After hours of working together and defending each other to their higher-ups, they are able to identify different groups of people that have been infected, all of which are random and don’t show a clear trend. After the truth is discovered, that the disease is being spread through licking stamps, Corporal Bettijean and Sergeant Andrew are granted a 30-day vacation together, with the promises of getting to know each other better. They accept gratefully, and stare into each other’s eyes. 	Though their relationship may be inappropriate in the modern office, it’s clear through their constant defense of the other and dedication to the cause, that their romance is just as strong as their professional relationship. "
"<s>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too.     Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out.     Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports.     As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit.     The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote.     ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth....     Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face.     ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy.  <doc-sep>Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere!     Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be.     All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it!     And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary.     The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife.     Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was      I     all right!     Molly! What are you doing here?     I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right?     Of course I'm all right. But why....     The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you      sure     you're all right?     I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it.     Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said.     When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet.     He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him.     In other words, you think it's something organic?     Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed.     But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern.     Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.  <doc-sep>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map.     We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come.     Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D.     Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore.     The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel.     What—what is the population of Minos? she asked.     He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly.     Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired.     Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied.     They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.     I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them.     Joke? Max asked, bewildered.     June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us.     She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead?     He indicated her with a smile. Like you.     June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes.     In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme?     Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable.     For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague.     Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.     Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look.       Plague.     What was the disease? Hal Barton asked.     Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it.     You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.     Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow.     Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton.     No.     Any other diseases?     Not a one.     Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!  <doc-sep></s>","In short, without Janis, Sergeant Andrew McCloud would not have discovered the cause of the epidemic as quickly or at all. 	Near the end of the story, Janis, an attractive blonde woman, enters Sergeant Andy’s office to deliver another stack of reports before him and Corporal Bettijean. The two of them had been analyzing the reports and statistics for several hours now, desperate to find a trend amongst those infected. So far, they had come up with nothing concrete, except for the types of people who were getting infected. Working people, artists, poets, newly engaged women, and small office workers were all turning up sick. Bigger offices, postal workers, doctors, dentists, and government workers were all fine. So, what’s the connection? 	After nervously delivering the reports, Janis quickly scurries out of the office and back to her desk elsewhere. Bettijean and Andy notice that the adult population in Aspen, Colorado; Taos; and Santa Fe, New Mexico is rapidly falling ill, all towns with prominent artistic industries. 	They keep pouring over the reports, making new discoveries but still not coming up with any answers. Suddenly, a girl cries out from beyond his office. They hear a body fall to the floor, and they quickly rush out as the sounds of screaming emerge. Andy sends Bettijean to retrieve a doctor and a chemist, while he runs to help. Janis was lying on the floor, in pain and scared. Luckily, the virus is not contagious, so Andy and the others were able to help her. 	Andy interrogates her, asking detailed questions about her day and the past 12 hours. He tries to ascertain all the moments of her life, so he can pinpoint where and how she got infected. Her symptoms match up with the epidemic at hand (a fever and feeling dizzy), so Andy knows this is his best shot to find the origin. 	Slowly, she recounts her day and tells them all about what she did, where she was, and what she ate. She hides one thing though, which Andy quickly forces out of her. She wrote a letter to her mother, telling her about the epidemic and how scary it was. This is against regulations, as shown through Andy’s grunt of disapproval. She mailed it with her own stamps, not with a government envelope. 	Andy puts all the puzzle pieces together in his mind and realizes that all those people, Janis included, had one thing in common: writing letters. The poison was in the stamp. Without Janis, Andy would have struggled far longer to discover the illness and halt the production and sale of all stamps nationwide. 	"
"<s>It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.     Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.     Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.     RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled.     Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely.     Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation.     Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder.     Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that.     A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto—     All right, Andy said sharply.     For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work.     Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and—     Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man—     That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action.     Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't—     Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep.     But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from—     Corporal! the colonel roared.  <doc-sep>    THE PLAGUE         By TEDDY KELLER         Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States!         Illustrated by Schoenherr      Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.     Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection.     All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.     I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge.     But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg.     Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out.     But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word.     Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through.     Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office.  <doc-sep>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel?     The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just—     I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone.     But, general, I—     The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?     Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess.     The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared.     Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.     I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works.     A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it.     It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within.     The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?     Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him.     Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation.     The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here.     But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned—     The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work.  <doc-sep></s>","From the start, the colonel does not approve of Sergeant Andrew McCloud. His gray eyes carry disapproval and irritation in them. As a member of the brass, the colonel strives for everything to be official and approved of, unlike the sergeant’s recent promotion. The replacement for the retired colonel had not yet arrived, and the chicken colonel is not thrilled. To have a noncom, defined as a noncommissioned officer, in charge of this office while in the midst of a national epidemic is ludicrous, in his eyes. 	Despite voicing his doubts and grievances, Sergeant Andy is allowed to continue working as the head-of-office, at least for the time being. The colonel steals away and plots his next move. 	Several hours later, he returns, this time with two officers in tow. He walks into Sergeant Andy’s office where he and Corporal Bettijean were looking through a stack of papers. With a defiant stride, the colonel tosses a newspaper onto the Sergeant’s desk. Andy reads it and quickly throws it across the room. The article tells the tale of a red plague taking over America, a possible plot from Russia, and baffled government officials. The colonel brought in the article--and possibly helped write it--to convey the seriousness of the situation, but Andy takes it as an offense instead. 	His colleague, Corporal Bettijean, defends Andy and reprimands the colonel at the same time. The captain behind him scolds her in return. After Sergeant Andy recites a list of excuses for his office, the colonel tells him that his insubordination will not be allowed. He calls for his removal, as well as Corporal Bettijean's, and promotes the two officers from the surgeon general’s office to take their positions. 	After some fight, Andy relents and stands up, releasing himself of his duty. He kisses his colleague once, before she tries to fight back again. The general walks in and quickly demotes the colonel and his men to working at the switchboard, where the reader can assume they stay for the rest of the story. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>    A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS  <doc-sep>Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year....     The crop isn't panning out?     Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop.     Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial—     Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else!     It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time.     Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said.     Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.     Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said.     This isn't      drinking     . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked.     Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs.     Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully.     Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport.     Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins in a living room where a husband and wife sit in their respective chairs, the wife wearing a headset called a telovis. The husband, Herbert Hyrel, figures she is watching a sex-opera as her escapist entertainment of choice, and waits a few minutes to start his own entertainment. As we waits, he considers his anger towards his wife: he no longer resented the time she spent not talking to him, while utilizing her telovis, but he did hate that she controlled the purse-strings in the household and gave him a small allowance. His anger had been pent up for some time, enough that he wanted to kill his wife, but for now he was satisfied with the idea of killing her. Once enough time had passed, he flicked a switch on the teleporter suit he was wearing and a version of his body appeared in a cabin in the woods that he was renting, where he had left himself a fresh outfit. He headed to the Riverside Club where he hoped to encounter a woman he had met recently, and when he got there he sat down and drank some cheap whiskey. He encountered a costumed woman who teased him, pulled away to dance with someone else, but came back to dance with him once the man she was with disappeared.  This man had flipped the switch on his suit, disappearing and leaving behind a pile of clothes, presumably because he would have been discovered wherever his original body was. As Herbert danced and moved outside, he spotted the woman he had been looking for, wearing a suggestive costume and a platinum wig, her body and her purse all covered in jewels. She asked him for champagne, which he was upset about because he did not have much money, but he obliged and tried to move the night forward after he had had something to drink. Again, though, she requested he spend more money on her--this time, for a private room at the club so they did not have to be outside. She said she was asking him to prove to her that she could be spoiled, but this pressure reminded him how angry he was that he had to spend the little money he had trying to escape from his wife, budgeting in a way that limited his nights out just to have some privacy. He started yelling about how he would have more money soon, and eventually admitted that he would kill his wife to get it. Hearing this, the woman he was with pulled a gun out of her purse and shot him--it was his wife all along. The scene jumps back to the house, where the wife pulls off her telovis set, smugly turns off her husband's teleporter suit, and watches him gasp for air and die. She called the police to call for a doctor, hid her own teleporter suit, and waited for the police to show."
"<s>    A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS  <doc-sep>  He let the  thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought.     It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment....     He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one....     He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated.     Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret.     He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago.     He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch.   <doc-sep>  The dank air  of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away....     He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf....     Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high.     Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter.     The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades.     The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls.     Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste.     When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult.     He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect.     A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face.     Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time?     He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed.     This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old.     The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land.     The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them.     Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening.     Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ...   <doc-sep></s>","Herbert's wife controls the financial affairs in their household. She is a fan of her telovis set, her preferred medium for escapist entertainment, and Herbert is under the impression that she likes to watch sex-operas, which are a longer experience that rely on emotional build-up. She makes most of the money but also controls it all, which Herbert resents her for--he thinks she is keeping it from him, and feels looked down upon when she gives him his allowance. This infantilizing attitude makes him extremely angry. She is devious and cunning, and hatches a plan to catch him in his act. It is her, after all, that drove him to want to escape. Either to confirm suspicions of a murder plot or to disrupt his own escapist time, she has her own teleporter suit that she uses to position herself to seduce her husband in the one place he figured he would be free from her. She dresses up covered in jewels and insists that he spend money on her to pressure him to admitting that he has none, which eventually pushes him to admit his plan. She kills him once she hears this, and calmly puts everything back in order as she reports something being wrong with her husband to the police, clearly not upset that her husband is dead. "
"<s>  He let the  thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought.     It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment....     He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one....     He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated.     Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret.     He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago.     He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch.   <doc-sep>  Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  <doc-sep>  The dank air  of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away....     He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf....     Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high.     Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter.     The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades.     The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls.     Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste.     When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult.     He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect.     A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face.     Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time?     He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed.     This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old.     The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land.     The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them.     Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening.     Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ...   <doc-sep></s>","The relationship Herbert and his wife have seems to have an infantilizing or patronizing tone to it. His wife seems to be fairly cold towards him, at least from the way she interacts with his death in the last scene of the story, but Herbert is harboring a large amount of hate and anger. A lot of this dynamic is driven by the control of money in the household, as Herbert's wife is in charge of these decisions, and Herbert does not agree with her on how much money he should have access to. His anger increases as he works on a plan to get away from her, as he spends what little he has to maintain access to the Riverside Club, paying rent on a cabin, buying a teleporter suit, and similar expenses. He is finally pushed to make the choice to finally want to kill her when he finds he does not have the spending money to be able to buy nice drinks or private rooms for himself and the woman he meets at the club, who turns out to be his wife. "
"<s>    A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS  <doc-sep>  He let the  thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought.     It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment....     He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one....     He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated.     Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret.     He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago.     He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch.   <doc-sep>Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year....     The crop isn't panning out?     Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop.     Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial—     Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else!     It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time.     Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said.     Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.     Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said.     This isn't      drinking     . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked.     Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs.     Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully.     Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport.     Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black.  <doc-sep></s>","Teleporter suits play an important role in the relationship of Herbert and his wife, but also in the society that they live in more broadly. In terms of broad significance, the teleporter suits are important to the Riverside Club, as only people who own one are allowed to enter. They are illegal to own, so the club had to be careful about who they let in. Even though they are frowned upon, it seems they are a popular purchase for those who can afford them. Both Herbert and his wife own one, though we don't learn that his wife has one until the end of the story. For Herbert, the teleporter suit is his ticket to spend time outside of the house that he feels trapped in, in a relationship that he is not happy in. It allows him to visit this club and meet other people. At the same time, it is these suits that allowed his wife to follow him to the club and convince him to admit his plans, eventually ending in his death. After she shoots him, she hides her own suit but leaves his on his person. Because the body in the suit and the other copy of the body experience things differently, it was a sneaky way to kill her husband. "
"<s>  The dank air  of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away....     He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf....     Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high.     Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter.     The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades.     The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls.     Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste.     When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult.     He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect.     A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face.     Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time?     He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed.     This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old.     The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land.     The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them.     Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening.     Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ...   <doc-sep>    A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS  <doc-sep>Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year....     The crop isn't panning out?     Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop.     Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial—     Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else!     It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time.     Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said.     Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.     Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said.     This isn't      drinking     . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked.     Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs.     Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully.     Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport.     Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black.  <doc-sep></s>","The Riverside Club is a place that only the wealthy can escape to: all of the clientele have a lot of money, but they also needed a lot of money to gain access, as they have to prove that they own a teleporter suit to get in. Everyone who goes there is looking to escape themselves, but ironically Herbert escapes his wife to end up right back in front of her. Besides being a point of interest because it offered the clearest path of escape for Herbert, the club is also important because it shows glimpses into how the suits work: when someone has to leave suddenly, their clothes are left behind because it is just the copy of the body that moves. The club also was significant to the story because it provided a place for Herbert's wife to play out her plan to catch Herbert in his own plot."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure.     The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin.     This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself.     Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination.     Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile.     Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests....     Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to.     Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","The story starts in a park, where we meet a a young boy who goes by the Butcher (Butch), and his dog Brute. The boy is trying to do something to the dog with a small metal tube when Hal, another boy, shows up with his own dogs, and another boy named Joggy. It turns out these are not normal dogs, but are uninj, machines created to be like dogs but not able to be hurt. Butch seems bored with these countermeasures against violence, and intent on putting violence back in the world. His interactions with Hal show us that they live in a civilization where the children are given opportunities to work out any violent and angry tendencies or impulses before they are conditioned as adults. They are only allowed to visit the Time Theater to see glimpses into other societies (and thus evidence of violence) after age five, and the change in mentality happens at age six. Butch wants to use Time Bubble to travel through time, but Hal insists that this is impossible. The boys head to this theater, an incredible crystal building with an important place in this society, choosing to fly there with their hover technology. Joggy is five, so he is allowed to enter with Hal, but Butch is blocked from entering by the ushers, which Hal says is for his own protection. Joggy and Hal take a seat in a children's viewing area to look into the glowing orb of light that sits in the middle of the round theater. The orb acts as a viewport into various times and places, and is currently showing a view of Earth, Scandanavia more specifically, around year zero according to Earth calendars. There are a number of warriors in the forest scene, along with some dogs and a sorcerer, and the boys watch in earnest. As the electronic interpreter for the viewing gives the boys more information about cultural context, Butch manages to sneak in to the theater by lying to the ushers. Shortly after Butch and two young girls join the viewing, something happened that no-one thought possible: the sorcerer pushed one of the warriors through the orb of the Time Bubble, throwing him into the theater. Panic falls on the audience, and warriors and dogs continue to enter the theater as Butch and the uninjes start to fight off the time-travelers with their design keeping them from being injured. Hal is convinced that this happened because an under-five (Butch specifically) was in the theater, but the rest of the public does not know he is young and they thank him for saving the day as he fights off the warriors and the Time Bubble collapses. This is the first piece of chaos the adults have experienced in their adult lives, and the Butcher is content with how it all played out, getting to play hero in a violent setting for a day with Brute."
"<s>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant.     The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though.     The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future.     Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right.     The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky.     Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time?     That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it.     I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world?     Why—er—you see, Joggy—     The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering.  <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet.     Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou?     How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness.     I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory.     I mean if you      could     hurt an uninj, Joggy amended.     Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think.     About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness.     The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again.     You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age.     We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet      you     didn't.     Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older.     I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System?     The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses.     But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble?     They can't. It's impossible.     Yes, but suppose they did all the same.     You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff.     I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director.     They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him.     They will not. I won't let 'em.     It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six.     Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep      telling     me about it, do you?  <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you.     The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old.     You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside.     Why?     I don't exactly know, but something.     Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement.     They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you.     Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically.     Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up.     But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily.     Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands.     Of course not, Hal said irritably.     Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed.     The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall.     I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said.     The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force.     I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher.  <doc-sep></s>","Hal is one of the three boys who drives the narrative of the story; he is the oldest of the three, with the most experience and knowledge. He acts as a mentor to the Butcher and Joggy, the other two boys. Joggy is five, so he is able to go to the Time Theater for the first time, but the Butcher is not yet old enough. Hal tells the Butcher that his violent impulses will pass given time and conditioning, and tries to dissuade him from trying to enter the TIme Theater for the sake of safety. He is the one that wants to go to the theater, and asks the Butcher to walk with him. He scolds the Butcher once he reveals how he snuck into the theater, and is worried about the potential danger. Throughout the time in the theater, it is Hal who explains how the different beings in the society fit together, and the technology (and theories) around the Time Bubble, though the electronic narrator in the viewing box at the theater also helps fill in some details. Throughout the story more broadly, Hal maintains a patient tone with the Butcher, as he tries to be very understanding about his youthful inclinations towards violence, admitting his past urges but pointing towards positive change towards a more calm mindset. "
"<s>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.     Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?     Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics.           A sound foreign policy     , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began—      by common consent of the governments     . Thisis known as self-containment.     Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out.     Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where?     Outside the dome.     Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave.     And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave      now     .     Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor.     Then you      have     discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out?     The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group.     Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.     Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them.     Everyone spoke at the same moment.       A sound foreign policy     , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words.  <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy.     When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something.     For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut.     In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut.     The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back.     In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had.     This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip.  <doc-sep>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.'     Ching?     Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.     Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.     That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony.     He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations....     Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.     I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon.     Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better.     She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting....     How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me      you're     from another time!     Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue.  <doc-sep></s>","There are two major types of technology highlighted in the story: the first is the mechanical kind that allows for hovering travel, the development of uninjes, and the systems in place in the theater like the ushers and the protective mechanisms. The other major thing that could be categorized as technology is the Time Bubble itself; it acts as a form of entertainment but also as a warning to avoid the habits of people of the past. Focusing on the engineering technology that does not directly relate to potential time-travel, it is strongly hinted that the children in the story might be partly mechanical themselves, though this is not clarified. It is pointed out that there are adolescers and kinderobots, which could be referring to the age groups of these children, and the dogs that follow the people around are also technological creations. The uninjes are like dogs, and are built to have canine reactions to be as close to real dogs as possible, but cannot be harmed and in the end are still collections of circuits with a battery and molded plastic. There are a number of pieces of technology in the theater, including forcefields used by ushers to block children who are too young to enter, and a number of safeguards like forcefields to protect people inc ase something went wrong with the Time Bubble. The bubble itself is a marvel of technology but nobody understands exactly how it works. Most of the discourse surrounding this is about the theories of time travel. "
"<s>Scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brainwere the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique andscheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp'snervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interferewith the harmony of his home.     You're away behind the times, Harp, he declared. Don't you knowthat those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springsever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has builtthe largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and thatpeople are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,you missed a bet!     Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine fromScribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shapedstructure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rockof Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circularskyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in thedrawing looked lovely and enticing.     Why, I remember now! exclaimed Bella. That's where the Durants wenttwo years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They cameback in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib?     Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martiansprings had effected in the Durants. It's the very thing for you,Harp, he advised. You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gasthey use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort offloats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. Andyou can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And notonly that. Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant lookingbrother-in-law. The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated anenzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oilinto its components without the need for chemical processing. There's afortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learnsto process the stuff!     Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. Themagazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd andcalculating. He even forgot to twitch. Maybe you're right, Scrib, heacknowledged. Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?     Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And thatwas when he saw the line about the robots. —the only hotel staffedentirely with robot servants—     Robots! he shrilled. You mean they've developed the things to thatpoint? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'lldisfranchise him! I'll—     Harp! exploded Bella. Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thingabout it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing atantrum? That's the only sensible way!     You're right, Bella, agreed Harper incisively. I'll go and find outfor myself. Immediately! Scooping up his hat, he left at his usuallope.     Well! remarked his sister. All I can say is that they'd better turnthat happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out!  <doc-sep>He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily.       This might be a lucky break for me after all     , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit.      I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it.        IV     Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror.     Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you?     No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled.     It      is     a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret.     Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...?     Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be      his     wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve?     I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back.       Sure     , she thought,      I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills.     Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body.     You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he?     I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had!     Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one.  <doc-sep>What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  <doc-sep></s>","This society is organized around a reconditioning of thoughts that happens as children transition into adulthood, starting at age six. Adults who have already been reconditioned are passive and polite members of society, who supposedly do not have traces of violent tendencies anymore. Before this, however, there are a few levels of separation from the rest of the society. Five year olds are allowed to go to the Time Theater to view whatever is showing through the Time Bubble, a view into other societies throughout time, but anyone younger than five is not allowed. This is presumably because of safety concerns--Hal thinks that young children are a nuisance to adults in these settings. The society has a number of systems in place specifically for these younger children who have not yet been conditioned. There are things called death games and fear houses, which we do not see details of in this story, that are meant to clear out the childrens' emotional space. It also seems that uninjes, the robotic dogs that the boys have, are also for this purpose: Hal says that they are part of the society's options for letting kids work out their ruthless and inconsiderate impulses. These impulses are restructured when they are aimed at other people, but violent alien beings and viruses or other medical concerns are still considered threats worth responding to in full force. The particular focus on avoiding violent patterns seen in other civilizations is highlighted by the grand nature of the Time Theater, and its position at the end of a major street in a large public park."
"<s>   TIME IN THE ROUND     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator       in history: everybody gave in to him because       he was so puny and they were so impregnable!        From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again.     The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled.     The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em!     A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog.     Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute.  <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction.     Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth.     The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said.     A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience.     The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand.     I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined.     In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter.     Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out.     There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient.     At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that!     The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc.     Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step.       The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth.  <doc-sep>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.'     Ching?     Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.     Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.     That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony.     He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations....     Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.     I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon.     Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better.     She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting....     How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me      you're     from another time!     Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue.  <doc-sep></s>","The term pre-civilization points to anything that has a sense of violence or chaos in the lives of adults. For instance, raised voices and people talking over each other is considered pre-civilization, but so are violent wars. The society is built to get rid of these tendencies in children and recondition them as adults to be calm and peaceful members of society. When the Butcher is referred to as looking pre-civilization at the beginning of the story, it is because he seems to be up to something he isn't supposed to do, as he is potentially hurting or controlling Brute in some way with the use of a metal tube. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe      Quest III's     shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist.     But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible.     The people in the      Quest III     would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation.     One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth—     That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there.     The      Quest III     bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart.     Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the      Quest III's     bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit.     He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the      Quest III     ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting.     Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other      Quests     might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","It’s the year 819, and a man named Ryd Randl who lives in Dynamopolis, a city in North America, goes to a dive bar. The place is crowded with many men because Dynamopolis is experiencing a power shortage, and they would freeze outside. Burshis, the owner of the bar, gives Ryd a free drink and explains that a ship from Mars just brought power back. He is expecting there to be a big boom in the economy soon, which will lead to jobs for people like Ryd. Ryd is not easily convinced of this good news. The ugly and tall man sitting next to Ryd recognizes him. Once outside, Mury introduces himself and asks Ryd if he wants to make some money. He explains that he can offer Ryd a comeback. Ryd has been jobless for ten years, but before that he was a helio operator. Since then, Mars has become fully independent, and all the work moved there. Mury says that he is working for the hundreds of men who have been put out by the corrupt government on Mars. Although Ryd and all the other Earthmen have been told that the new power cylinder being installed will create jobs and bring back the power, Mury argues that isn’t truly the case. He insists that Earthmen are essentially slaves to Mars’s landowners, and in order to stop that from happening, they must stop the power cylinder from landing on Earth. The two men arrive at Pi Mesa, and Mury kills a guard. Ryd steals his clothing and his flame pistol so that they can get on the ship unnoticed. Ryd must pretend to be a guard escorting Mury, the Poligerent of Dynamopolis aboard the Shahrazad. The two men sneak into the controlled area through a metal door, make it to the Communications Tower, and speak with a guard. Mury offers to show his credentials as Poligerent, and surprises the guard with a punch to the gut. Mury takes the officer’s gun, points it at him, and demands he accompany them. Ryd nervously points his flame pistol at the guard and drops his weapon. The weapon goes off and its flame hits some machinery. This gives the pilot pause, and Mury hurries to the control room and takes over the situation. There are three workers there who become his hostages. He explains to the men that he’s taking Shahrazad into space to meet the power shell. When the ship takes off, Ryd passes out from the pressure of the acceleration. When he wakes, Mury assures him that they are on the right path, somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. However, Mury quickly finds out that his masterful plan has been foiled when one of his prisoners, the astrogator, informs him that a ship named the Alboroak is approaching, and it’s about to intercept them. "
"<s>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep>On that day, I walked farther than I had intended and, by the time Igot back home, I found the rest of my family had returned before me.They seemed to be excited about something and were surprised to see meso calm.     Aren't you even interested in anything outside your own immediateconcerns, Kev? Sylvia demanded, despite Father's efforts to shush her.     Can't you remember that Kev isn't able to receive the tellies? Timshot back at her. He probably doesn't even know what's happened.     Well, what did happen? I asked, trying not to snap.     One starship got back from Alpha Centauri, Danny said excitedly.There are two inhabited Earth-type planets there!     This was for me; this was it at last! I tried not to show myenthusiasm, though I knew that was futile. My relatives could keeptheir thoughts and emotions from me; I couldn't keep mine from them.What kind of life inhabits them? Humanoid?     Uh-uh. Danny shook his head. And hostile. The crew of the starshipsays they were attacked immediately on landing. When they turned andleft, they were followed here by one of the alien ships. Must be apretty advanced race to have spaceships. Anyhow, the extraterrestrialship headed back as soon as it got a fix on where ours was going.     But if they're hostile, I said thoughtfully, it might mean war.     Of course. That's why everybody's so wrought up. We hope it's peace,but we'll have to prepare for war just in case.     There hadn't been a war on Earth for well over a hundred years, butwe hadn't been so foolish as to obliterate all knowledge of militarytechniques and weapons. The alien ship wouldn't be able to come backwith reinforcements—if such were its intention—in less than sixmonths. This meant time to get together a stockpile of weapons, thoughwe had no idea of how effective our defenses would be against thealiens' armament.     They might have strange and terrible weapons against which we wouldbe powerless. On the other hand, our side would have the benefitsof telekinetically guided missiles, teleported saboteurs, telepathsto pick up the alien strategy, and prognosticators to determine theoutcome of each battle and see whether it was worth fighting in thefirst place.     Everybody on Earth hoped for peace. Everybody, that is, except me. Ihad been unable to achieve any sense of identity with the world inwhich I lived, and it was almost worth the loss of personal survivalto know that my own smug species could look silly against a still moretalented race.  <doc-sep>  Saboteur of Space     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy     which would bring life to a dying planet.     Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly     rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns     in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen     of fate—and even the winner would lose.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.     Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight.     Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive.     The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America.     The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.     Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened.     Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered.     No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd.     The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—     Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you.     He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply.     The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place in Dynamopolis, a city in North America, in the year 819. The city is flooded with searchlights, although there is very little power to go around. The Terrestrials must gather at the local bar, Stumble Inn, if they do not want to freeze to death. At one point, Dynamopolis was a wealthy city, known as the Port of Ten Thousand Ships. About ten years ago, the Power Company of North America and the Triplanet Freighting Company were shut down, and the majority of the Terrestrials lost their jobs. The only people with political power are the Poligerents, and unless a Terrestrial knows one of them, he or she is likely left without a way to make ends meet. The Terrestrials were recently told that the power will be restored once the power shell is put on Earth. The air is thin, but the Terrestrials have become accustomed to it.Pi Mesa is the spaceport that hovers over the city. There are still unused ships hovering there from the days where it was an important port with lots of action. Just outside of Pi Mesa there are hundreds of low buildings that are abandoned because they are no longer useful. They contain fuel pumps and servicing equipment, and they serve as a constant reminder of the life the Terrestrials once lived. When Ryd and Mury break into the land patrolled by the guards in blue in the spaceport, they find narrow passages, spiral staircases, and cool metal walls covered in dust. The Communications Tower is nearby, and it is guarded by signal-men.  The soldier robots that are on patrol are about as tall as the average Terrestrial, and they are scarlet colored. They are unarmed and are mostly there to scare intruders away. Mury and Ryd aim to get on a ship called Shahrazad, which rests on the Number Two Runway, waiting for takeoff. When they enter the ship, they find that the cabin is very hot and full of dials and needles. There is a curved control panel in front, and the ship makes a humming sound because of all of the air-purifiers onboard. Mars is an important setting in the story, although the characters do not actually travel there. Mars is almost airless, so it is very easy to run a helio-dynamic engine. On Mars, they use robots for labor, and due to a law that has been passed, Terrestrials are forced to stay on Earth. "
"<s>Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting.     Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage.     Keep him covered. Back out of the lock.     Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.     He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside.     The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.     You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock.     Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel.     It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him      ex officio     the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more.     It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock.     He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:     What do you think you're trying to do?     What do      you     think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name?     Yet Arliess.     You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?     The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do.      III       Shahrazad     drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles.     Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel.     A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines.     Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.     Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we?     Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?     The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks.     Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight.     What's that, Arliess?     The astrogator broke his silence. A ship.     I know that well enough. What ship?     I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner      Alborak     , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars.     Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive.     I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady.     I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!  <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.     Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.     They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.     As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them.     And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.     Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough.     And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the      Shahrazad     , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.     Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the      Shahrazad     when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.     Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots!     They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy.     Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space?     Where else? said Mury.  <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips.     Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him.     Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily.     Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes.     I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—     To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies?     Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm:     The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners?      Do you?      He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as      slaves     !     What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant      me     to do about it?     Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now.     Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean?     The power shell—isn't coming in as planned.     You can't do that.           We     can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?     Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as      We     never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was      We     .     The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth.     You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come.     Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened....     After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now?     Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa.      II     One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard.     The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery.     Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America.     All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way.     The rest of the way.     Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.     No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship      Shahrazad     .     For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.     Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door.       Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying:      run, run     —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.     The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.  <doc-sep></s>","Mury is a tall and ugly man with a great deal of confidence. When he finds Ryd in the bar, he immediately asks him to step outside and confronts him with a proposition. He is not overly concerned about getting caught talking about rebellion, and he is resolute about his decision to try and take over the spaceship that is about to take off. Mury immediately gains Ryd’s trust when he sympathizes with him about losing his job ten years ago. They are on the same team, angry about the way the Terrestrials have been treated since all of the jobs moved to Mars. He is forceful with Ryd, and he stares at him intensely whenever he is questioned. Mury claims to work for all the men who have been disadvantaged by the corrupt government. He coldly tells Ryd that he means nothing to Mury as an individual, and he is only interested in saving the Terrestrials from becoming the Martians’ slaves. He believes that Earth is about to become a colony of Mars, and he is willing to risk his life to see that plan foiled. Mury’s tough attitude and willingness to act is demonstrated when he kills a guard by crushing his skull. He is unbothered by the incident and sees it as his only choice. Later, he pretends to be Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis for a moment, only so that he can punch another guard in the stomach, take his firearm, and shoot him. Mury is able to stay calm when Ryd loses his cool. Even when Ryd accidentally fires his weapon inside the central control panel room, Mury focuses on the mission at hand. When he finally takes control of the three men on board the Shahrazad and demands that they takeoff for Mars immediately, he is unfazed by their refusal. He snaps at the pilot and the other two workers and points his gun at them to indicate that he is dead serious about killing them if they do not comply. Mury is so sure of himself that it comes as a big surprise when the pilot tells him that he must not have looked at the log for the day. The Alborak is on a diplomatic mission to Mars, and it is something that Mury overlooked. He does not realize that the ship is fully aware that the Shahrazad has been hijacked, and it’s coming right for them. "
"<s>Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe.     Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport.     Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.     When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family.     Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.     Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay.     Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid.     Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.  <doc-sep>  Staying  alive had now become a fetishwith Jon.     On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realizedthat the Steel-Blues also were waitingfor the SP ship.     The extra-terrestrials had repaired theblue ship where the service station atomicray had struck. And they were doing a littletarget practice with plastic bubbles only afew miles above the asteroid.     When his chronometer clocked off thebeginning of the twenty-first day, Jon receiveda tumbler of the hemlock from thehands of No. 1 himself.     It is the hemlock, he chuckled, undiluted.Drink it and your torture is over.You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.     We have played with you long enough.Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement.     Weak though he was Jon lunged to hisfeet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It rancool along the plastic arm of his space suit.He changed his mind about throwing thecontents on No. 1.     With a smile he set the glass at his lipsand drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.     The SP ship will turn your ship intojelly.     No. 1 swept out, chuckling. Boast if youwill, Earthman, it's your last chance.     There was an exultation in Jon's heartthat deadened the hunger and washed awaythe nausea.     At last he knew what the hemlock was.     He sat on the pallet adjusting the littlepower-pack radio. The SP ship should nowbe within range of the set. The space patrolwas notorious for its accuracy in keeping toschedule. Seconds counted like years. Theyhad to be on the nose, or it meant disasteror death.     He sent out the call letters.     AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AXto SP-101 ...     Three times he sent the call, then begansending his message, hoping that his signalwas reaching the ship. He couldn't know ifthey answered. Though the power packcould get out a message over a vast distance,it could not pick up messages evenwhen backed by an SP ship's power unlessthe ship was only a few hundred milesaway.     The power pack was strictly a distresssignal.     He didn't know how long he'd beensending, nor how many times his wearyvoice had repeated the short but desperatemessage.     He kept watching the heavens and hoping.     Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues wasrising silently from the asteroid.     Up and up it rose, then flames flickeredin a circle about its curious shape. The shipdisappeared, suddenly accelerating.     Jon Karyl strained his eyes.     Finally he looked away from the heavensto the two Steel-Blues who stood negligentlyoutside the goldfish bowl.     Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.He marched out of the plastic igloo and rantoward the service station.     He didn't know how weak he was untilhe stumbled and fell only a few feet fromhis prison.     The Steel-Blues just watched him.     He crawled on, around the circular pit inthe sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Bluehad shown him the power of hisweapon.     He'd been crawling through a nightmarefor years when the quiet voice penetratedhis dulled mind.     Take it easy, Karyl. You're amongfriends.     He pried open his eyes with his will. Hesaw the blue and gold of a space guard'suniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.   <doc-sep>   A Gift From Earth     By MANLY BANISTER     Illustrated by KOSSIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Except for transportation, it was absolutely       free ... but how much would the freight cost?        It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians!     Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.     At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.     Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur.     It      is     a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor.     The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease.     By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.  <doc-sep></s>","The Earthmen are desolate because their ability to support themselves has been taken away by the people in power. Like many others, Ryd was a helio engineer, and he made a good living in the North American city of Dynamopolis. However, about a decade ago, all of the buildings were shuttered, and the Port of Ten Thousand Ships, Pi Mesa, was essentially closed. The people who live in Dynamopolis were actually luckier than other Terrestrials because theirs was the final port to close. The people in charge discovered that Mars has a thinner atmosphere, and they decided to move all of the work to the red planet. However, they did not transport the Terrestrials to a new land and give them an opportunity to continue working. Instead, they created robots who could easily do the humans’ jobs for a lot less money. Electricity is hard to come by on Dynamopolis, and the energy that is left goes to Pi Mesa. Although people like the local bartender, Burshis, believe the people in power when they say that energy will soon be restored when the power cylinder is brought to Earth, others, like Mury and Ryd, are much more skeptical. They see the writing on the wall: the Terrestrials will continue to be used and abused, and all of the much-needed resources will go towards Mars, the new frontier. "
"<s>  Saboteur of Space     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy     which would bring life to a dying planet.     Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly     rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns     in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen     of fate—and even the winner would lose.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.     Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight.     Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive.     The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America.     The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.     Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened.     Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered.     No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd.     The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—     Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you.     He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply.     The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl.  <doc-sep>Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting.     Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage.     Keep him covered. Back out of the lock.     Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.     He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside.     The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.     You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock.     Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel.     It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him      ex officio     the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more.     It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock.     He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:     What do you think you're trying to do?     What do      you     think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name?     Yet Arliess.     You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?     The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do.      III       Shahrazad     drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles.     Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel.     A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines.     Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.     Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we?     Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?     The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks.     Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight.     What's that, Arliess?     The astrogator broke his silence. A ship.     I know that well enough. What ship?     I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner      Alborak     , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars.     Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive.     I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady.     I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!  <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.     Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you.     What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol.     The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend?           Huh?     Why, yeh—I guess so—     Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit      meloderge     that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.     Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.     So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight.     Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so!     The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury.     Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes.     How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?     Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?     And why, Ryd?     Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it      then     , but I thought theplant was going to open again and—     And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world.     Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun.     Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents.     I know all about your record, said Mury softly.     Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you?  <doc-sep></s>","Ryd is a resentful and skeptical person because he has been without a job for at least ten years. His only solace comes from drinking at Burshis’ Stumble Inn, where he can pretend that no one knows him and have a nice chat with the bar owner. He knows he was a good helio engineer, and he is fully aware that he did not deserve to have his job ripped from his hands. When the bartender suggests that he will have a new job soon, Ryd thinks to himself that anyone who wants to give him a job can screw off. He has been without one for too long to even know how to manage it. Ryd is also skeptical of people around him. When Mury approaches him at the bar, he notices right away that Mury seems out of place in the way that he’s dressed. He also gives Mury an attitude when the man starts a conversation with him. He has learned not to trust many people, so he acts contrary to his natural intuition when he listens to Mury and almost immediately believes he has his best interest in mind.Ryd is not a trained spy or someone who has a lot of experience with committing crimes, so he is very out of place on his mission with Mury. He is jumpy, anxious, and concerned for his safety throughout the job. He is so uncomfortable holding a weapon that he actually drops his flame pistol in a control room and nearly starts a fire. He leaves the dirty work to Mury, and he does not offer to shoot anyone or engage in combat or do anything that isn’t directly asked of him. Ryd goes along for the ride because he is afraid that Mury will kill him if he backs out of the mission, and he also realizes that Mury’s plan may be the only thing that saves men like him from becoming slaves. "
"<s>class=chap/>    THE SERPENT RIVER     By Don Wilcox     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Other Worlds May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.     What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark.     The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him.     They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off.     A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness.     I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil.     I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection.     So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.  <doc-sep></s>","Captain Linden and his lieutenant Split Campbell make up the first manned expedition from Earth to this particular planet, aiming to investigate a large silver river on its surface. The seemingly-endless silvery strip that traveled the planet's surface was unidentifiable as of yet. They see the river-like thing early on, but Campbell spots a humanoid through his telescope--this being is much like a human man, including the fact that he wore clothing. Captain Linden decides it's time for introductions, as if he senses he can trust this being, but they watch as a female and then many other people join the first man on the surface, seemingly coming out of an underground city. Linden and Campbell think their ship is out of sight, and watch a ritual that the man is performing to the setting sun. The crowd of people continues to increase, and Linden notices that the landscape is moving: trees are shifting in the ground. He and Campbell stay in the ship and observe the various types of clothing and the ritual itself, as well as the moving trees which seemed to be moving to attack the people. They are indeed warriors starting an attack, and started swinging weapons. Linden tells Campbell to start the siren on their ship to scare away the attackers, and the first man they'd seen, presumably the leader, starts towards the ship. Once they are close enough, it is obvious that the humanoids don't have eyebrows or eye lashes. Captain Linden hands the leader a medallion that plays a song, as a token of friendship. Tomboldo, the leader, starts a round of introductions through a lot of gesturing. Linden hopes to learn about the Serpent River through the people to understand its cultural significance, and these people start to ask about the siren noises. The warriors attack again and panic ensues, pushing the humans to use weapons this time. Gravgak, the guard who had been escorting the humans, is knocked down. As Linden tries to tend to him, Gravgak knocks him out with his club. Linden is unconscious for a few weeks, and Vauna, Tomboldo's daughter, spends a lot of time by the Captian's side. Linden reminds Campbell that they weren't allowed to marry anyone from this planet, but mostly in an effort to warn himself to be careful around Vauna. He learns that these people are called the Benzendellas. Tomboldo is baffled by the technology that the humans have, but Linden is not able to communicate his questions about the Serpent River. He sees Gravgak, who apologizes for the accidental injury, but from Vauna's reaction Linden is not sure if he is telling the truth. Gravgak insists on talking to Vauna in private, but Vauna's father calls them back. It is Tomboldo's thanks to the humans that gives a glimpse into the meaning of the Serpent River: he says the humans will ride with them on the rope of life, which they call Kao-Wagwattl."
"<s>class=chap/>    4.     Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious.     I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.     Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell.     S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream.     The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language.     Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?     Quiet, Captain.     Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see.     It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?     Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?     One of them.     And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—     Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently.     After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?     Of course not, Captain.     Section Four?     Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding—     I interrupted. Clause D?     He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning      yourself     ?     At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself.     In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born.     Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out.     I wanted to see her.     So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.     I regained my health gradually.     Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak.     It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.     And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams.     The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars.     I have learned to talk, I said.     You have had a long sleep.     I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon.     We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other.     I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the      serpentriver     . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent.      I     made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak.     You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.     I get well, I said.     The blow on the head, he said, was not meant.     I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well!     The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone.     She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak.     Now! he shouted. Alone.     He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.     From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed.     But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back.     (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?)     Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back.     Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling.     While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world.     There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.     We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the      Kao-Wagwattl     , the ever moving      rope of life     , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl      they shall ride with us across the land     .  <doc-sep>class=chap/>    3.     They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death.     Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre.     Captain—      Jim     ! You're not going to let this happen!     Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger.     Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.     Can we shoot a ray, Jim?     I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split      could     drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order.     We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.     Jim, can we shoot?     Hit number sixteen, Campbell.     Split touched the number sixteen signal.     The ship's siren wailed out over the land.     You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing.     Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us.     Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him.     He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled.     Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship.     We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.     Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak.     Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive.     Then the siren went off.     The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose.     I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars.     As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck.     Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself.     Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo.     We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak.     Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.     Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs.     By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.     Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo.     Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering:     Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!     See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed.     It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe.     Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren.     See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.      See—o—see—o!          Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.     Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair.     I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.     The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly.     Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa      warning     ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you.     I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran.     They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs.     But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him.     His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness.     Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head.     I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.  <doc-sep>class=chap/>    THE SERPENT RIVER     By Don Wilcox     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Other Worlds May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]  <doc-sep></s>","Gravgak is a guard who serves under Tomboldo, the leader of the Benzendella people, and escorts the humans after they meet. He is tall and muscular, with piercing eyes, and his limbs are painted with diamonds in green and black. He is knocked down during the second attack, and when Linden tries to tend to him, Gravgak knocks him out with his club. After Linden comes to a few weeks later, Gravgak apologizes for accidentally knocking him out, but it's not clear if he is being sincere about it being an accident. Linden's suspicions primarily come from Vauna's reaction, but Gravgak seems to hold some power over Vauna and Linden is not able to learn what Gravgak's true intentions are. "
"<s>class=chap/>    THE SERPENT RIVER     By Don Wilcox     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Other Worlds May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]  <doc-sep>class=chap/>    3.     They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death.     Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre.     Captain—      Jim     ! You're not going to let this happen!     Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger.     Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.     Can we shoot a ray, Jim?     I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split      could     drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order.     We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.     Jim, can we shoot?     Hit number sixteen, Campbell.     Split touched the number sixteen signal.     The ship's siren wailed out over the land.     You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing.     Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us.     Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him.     He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled.     Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship.     We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.     Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak.     Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive.     Then the siren went off.     The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose.     I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars.     As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck.     Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself.     Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo.     We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak.     Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.     Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs.     By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.     Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo.     Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering:     Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!     See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed.     It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe.     Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren.     See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.      See—o—see—o!          Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.     Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair.     I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.     The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly.     Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa      warning     ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you.     I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran.     They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs.     But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him.     His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness.     Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head.     I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.  <doc-sep>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.     What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark.     The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him.     They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off.     A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness.     I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil.     I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection.     So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.  <doc-sep></s>","When Linden and Campbell arrive at the planet, they are primarily interested in the snaking silver rope that travels around the continent like a river, but they notice some people seemingly coming from underground. As these people were performing a ritual, the humans noticed an impending attack from a different group, but didn't want to use weapons so they started a siren on their ship to distract the attackers. This siren did scare these attackers off for a while, and when Linden and Campbell started trying to communicate with the Benzendella people the only thing the Benzendellas could say was an imitation of the siren noise. It was this siren that saved the people from the initial attack, and thus made these people trust the humans, but was also the beginning of their attempts at communication. In an indirect way, using this siren is how the humans ended up with a chance to ask the Benzendella people about the Serpent River that they came to learn more about. "
"<s>class=chap/>    Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see.     It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like      something     thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface.     There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance.     We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon.       What was it?       Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly.     We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs.     Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.     I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!     Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'.     Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A—     Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit?     Yes sir.     Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly?     Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden.     What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?     No sir.     Well, what about it? Any comments?     Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir?     Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!     Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.     He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee.     Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.     Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.     What do you see? I asked.     I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—     You're seeing some sort of object?     Yes sir.     What sort of object?     A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—     A      man     ?     To all appearances, sir—     You bounder, give me that telescope!  <doc-sep>class=chap/>    4.     Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious.     I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.     Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell.     S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream.     The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language.     Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?     Quiet, Captain.     Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see.     It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?     Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?     One of them.     And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—     Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently.     After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?     Of course not, Captain.     Section Four?     Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding—     I interrupted. Clause D?     He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning      yourself     ?     At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself.     In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born.     Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out.     I wanted to see her.     So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.     I regained my health gradually.     Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak.     It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.     And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams.     The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars.     I have learned to talk, I said.     You have had a long sleep.     I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon.     We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other.     I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the      serpentriver     . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent.      I     made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak.     You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.     I get well, I said.     The blow on the head, he said, was not meant.     I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well!     The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone.     She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak.     Now! he shouted. Alone.     He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.     From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed.     But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back.     (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?)     Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back.     Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling.     While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world.     There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.     We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the      Kao-Wagwattl     , the ever moving      rope of life     , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl      they shall ride with us across the land     .  <doc-sep>class=chap/>    THE SERPENT RIVER     By Don Wilcox     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Other Worlds May 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]  <doc-sep></s>","Captain Linden is the leader of the first manned expedition from Earth to the planet that is inhabited by the Benzendella people. His sponsorship is from the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions, EGGWE for short. Because a previous rover had discovered a mysterious silver river and some humanoid creatures, Linden and his lieutenant were sent to discover more. He hoped that interacting with the humanoids would allow him to learn some cultural significance behind what he referred to as the Serpent River, which he also planned on studying scientifically. After he landed, while Campbell was monitoring the humanoids, he noticed that trees were moving towards the people, and sensed an incoming attack. He ordered Campbell to start a siren from their ship to distract the attackers, and later led the two of them to meet the local Benzendella people. He presented their leader with a token of friendship, a medallion that played music. As another attack started, and a guard fell, Linden tried to tend to the guard but was knocked out and did not regain consciousness for a few weeks. As he slowly healed and felt more normal, he had to warn himself to be careful around Vauna, the Benzendella leader's daughter, who had been watching him at his bedside. She was very beautiful, and he knew it was against mission code to marry locals. "
"<s>class=chap/>    Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see.     It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like      something     thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface.     There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance.     We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon.       What was it?       Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly.     We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs.     Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.     I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!     Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'.     Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A—     Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit?     Yes sir.     Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly?     Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden.     What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?     No sir.     Well, what about it? Any comments?     Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir?     Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!     Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.     He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee.     Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.     Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.     What do you see? I asked.     I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—     You're seeing some sort of object?     Yes sir.     What sort of object?     A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—     A      man     ?     To all appearances, sir—     You bounder, give me that telescope!  <doc-sep>class=chap/>    4.     Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious.     I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.     Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell.     S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream.     The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language.     Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?     Quiet, Captain.     Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see.     It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?     Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?     One of them.     And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—     Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently.     After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?     Of course not, Captain.     Section Four?     Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding—     I interrupted. Clause D?     He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning      yourself     ?     At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself.     In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born.     Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out.     I wanted to see her.     So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.     I regained my health gradually.     Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak.     It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.     And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams.     The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars.     I have learned to talk, I said.     You have had a long sleep.     I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon.     We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other.     I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the      serpentriver     . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent.      I     made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak.     You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.     I get well, I said.     The blow on the head, he said, was not meant.     I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well!     The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone.     She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak.     Now! he shouted. Alone.     He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.     From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed.     But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back.     (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?)     Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back.     Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling.     While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world.     There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.     We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the      Kao-Wagwattl     , the ever moving      rope of life     , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl      they shall ride with us across the land     .  <doc-sep>class=chap/>    3.     They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death.     Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre.     Captain—      Jim     ! You're not going to let this happen!     Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger.     Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.     Can we shoot a ray, Jim?     I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split      could     drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order.     We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.     Jim, can we shoot?     Hit number sixteen, Campbell.     Split touched the number sixteen signal.     The ship's siren wailed out over the land.     You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing.     Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us.     Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him.     He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled.     Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship.     We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.     Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak.     Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive.     Then the siren went off.     The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose.     I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars.     As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck.     Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself.     Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo.     We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak.     Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.     Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs.     By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.     Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo.     Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering:     Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!     See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed.     It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe.     Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren.     See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.      See—o—see—o!          Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.     Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair.     I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.     The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly.     Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa      warning     ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you.     I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran.     They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs.     But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him.     His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness.     Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head.     I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.  <doc-sep></s>","Linden is a fairly relaxed captain who is ready to perform his mission to code, but is almost amused at his lieutenant's inability to stray from code. He calls Campbell Split because he does everything so by-the-book that if he were combing his hair down the middle, he wouldn't be surprised if he split the hairs in the middle of his head for perfect symmetry. They seem to work well together, and Campbell is dedicated to his scientific mission and reviewing reports, while Linden reminds him to look at the window at the world around them, which offers a nice balance to their progress. Campbell clearly respects Linden a lot, and Linden is always kind to him and not rude or condescending, which is important for team cohesion on a mission away from a home planet. "
"<s>   What is POSAT?     By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course coming events cast their shadows     before, but this shadow was 400 years long!      The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines:     MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!     What is the secret source of those profound     principles that can solve the problems of life?     Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.     Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU     can alter the course of your life!     Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!     The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth     POSAT     an ancient secret society     Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand.     Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of      YourLife and Psychology     that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.     Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.     It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the      Antivivisectionist Gazette     the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible.     Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in      The Bulletin of Physical Research     . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object.     He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.     It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it.     I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters.     Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form.     Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.     He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility.     Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation.     To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity.     What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire.     I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out!     The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin.     Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?     Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers!     The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT?     Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.     It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed.     Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him.     His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future.     It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them.     Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.     After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too.     Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise.       Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these?     She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort.     This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?'     Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab?     Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?     Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants?     He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket?     He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him.     His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.     Dear Doctor Alford:     We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you.     The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?     It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning.       Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!     But it was impossible!     He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem!     Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or—     But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information.     His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents?     Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic.     At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday.  <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms.     It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT.     He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell.     The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect.     The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary.      Notthe Mata-Hari type     , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter.     She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room—     She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it.     The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis.     The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor.     Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things.     Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud.       Now I've done it!     thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered.     In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube.     There were no wires!     Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries.     The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded.     Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment!       But this is impossible!     he thought.      We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction!       And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth?     The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now—     With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked!     A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous.     Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice.     Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find.     She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman.       But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony.     Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it.     His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened.     He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent?     His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world!     Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain.     Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply.       You're     the GrandChairman of POSAT?     He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer?     I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep></s>","In 1953, an advertisement for the Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth appears in magazines. The ad claims that POSAT is an ancient secret society looking for new members. Three individuals send away to receive a free booklet from them. Bill is a pharmacist who is down on his luck and out of a job. Elizabeth is a wealthy woman who lives with cats. Don is a research physicist who has a successful career and a wife, Betty. POSAT sends Bill, Elizabeth, and Don three identical forms in the mail and asks for their responses. Bill is initially skeptical, but he hopes that POSAT will be able to turn his life around in some unexpected way. He answers the questions about his employment, religion, and finances. Elizabeth does the same enthusiastically. Although Don believes it’s a scam, he can’t squash his own curiosity, and he sends his answers in.In return, Bill receives a pamphlet with vague descriptions for how to solve life’s problems. He finds the material useless, but he isn’t disappointed because he just landed a new job. Elizabeth discovers that she has been accepted into the society, and she must pay $5 a month. Lastly, Don receives a multiple choice exam, which he answers and sends back.Don receives a request to meet with the Grand Chairman at his work, and this surprises him because he never gave them his work address. He finds the warehouse and sees that it is windowless, rundown, and dirty. However, the waiting room contains beautiful rugs and paintings in ornate frames. He realizes that each painting is lit with a glowing tube that does not contain batteries, and he puts one of the lights in his pocket. It shocks him because his workplace is the only laboratory working on this exact product. He no longer trusts what is going on at POSAT and tries to leave, but the door is locked. Don is brought upstairs, and his fear increases when he looks into a high tech laboratory and sees scientists working on an atomic reactor. Dr. Crandon, Don’s former professor, appears and introduces himself as the Grand Chairman. He tells Don that POSAT has been around for over four hundred years, and its founder invented the atomic reactor. He did not have the technology to build it, and he realized that humanity was not ready for such a weapon. He decided to share his knowledge with other geniuses and keep it all a secret. Their goal was to get humanity to a point where information could be shared without the threat of violence and death. Crandon shows Don the world’s biggest computer, which is meant to learn humans’ motivation. Don’s test was put into the computer, and his responses indicate that he will join POSAT and be a valuable member. Bill was given a job to improve his life, and Elizabeth feels included and contributes financially. Don decides to join the secret society and work towards a more peaceful planet. "
"<s>It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance.     All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her.     But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE.     Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction?     She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile.     Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial?     I shook my head. Not me, I said.     But I knew I would.   <doc-sep>  THE SOUL EATERS     By WILLIAM CONOVER     Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance     to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose     ships were the scourge of the Void. But his     luck had run its course, and now he was     marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save     himself from a menace weapons could not kill.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]            And so, my dear     , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase,       I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by.          Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's.     The barbaric rhythms of the      Congahua     , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.     Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate.     A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.     It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla.     Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious      Verbena     , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian      Bacca-glas     , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote.     His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly.     Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there.  <doc-sep>April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway.Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and theybounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. Here we are, shesaid.     Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with itsbackground that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if hehadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from anopen lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.     Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced downthe rutted road. Jilka, Kay said. I wonder if she got him.     Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a ratherwoebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed.Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, anddisappear into the ship.     Next, Kay said.     Quidley shook his head. You're not taking      me     to another planet!     She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object Alittle while ago you asked me what a      snoll doper     was, she said.Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice ofmarriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conformto the sexual mores of their own societies. She did something to theobject that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.      This     is a      snoll doper     .     She prodded his ribs. March, she said.     He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder fora better look at the object pressed against his back.     It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.  <doc-sep></s>","“What is POSAT?” takes place in an unspecified city. Three of the characters, Bill, Elizabeth, and Don, lead ordinary lives and hold typical jobs. Don is a physicist, and the laboratory he works at is located about 100 miles away from the POSAT headquarters. The POSAT headquarters is the main setting described in the story. It is located at the end of an alley in an unassuming warehouse, next to a wholesale pharmacy, an upholstery shop, and a printer’s plant. The building is almost entirely windowless, and the only sign that the secret society is housed there is the organization’s emblem on its door. Visitors enter a dark room with a staircase. A buzzer goes off to let the employees of POSAT know that someone has arrived. The reception room is dusty and highly unimpressive. The wallpaper and rugs are worn out and gray, and the woman who works at the beat-up reception desk is average looking. The next room that some visitors are allowed access to is entirely different from the first. There are gorgeous Renaissance paintings on the walls, framed with ornate gold decoration and lit up with individual lights. The rug is lush, and the room is impeccably clean. Finally, when visitors are invited to meet with the Grand Chairman, they must enter a balcony area located in the interior of the warehouse. There is a frosted glass door with the Grand Chairman’s name on it. On the lower floor, there is a laboratory that is visible from the balcony. The lab contains advanced equipment that is not available anywhere else in the world. It also houses an atomic reactor that is shielded by a bluish-green invention that is about an inch thick The shield is semi-transparent but also incredibly strong. Beneath the balcony, down a steep flight of stairs, there is a gigantic computing machine. Everything that goes on in the POSAT building must remain confidential, and very few individuals are told the secrets of the ancient society. "
"<s>Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him.     Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over.     Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility.     What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis?     Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves.     Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue.     Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered?     Don nodded, too bewildered to speak.     They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory.     Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian—     It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them.     But how could a man alive      today     buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance?     He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an      ancient     secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries.     But you said that he designed your atomic reactor.     Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however.     Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears.     Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly.     The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei—     But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance.     Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse.     What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have      derived     theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of      learning     his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible.     Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all?     But by one man, Don argued.     Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous.     He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply.  <doc-sep>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility.     But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him.     Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time!     Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.     Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster.     For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank.     Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?     Come with me, said Crandon.     He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine.     This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don?     But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late?     Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!     Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator.     But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all.     Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes.     There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us.     I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us?     Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question.     Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?     Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you?     Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.     Enroll me as a member, he said.   <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep></s>","Mr. Crandon is a member of POSAT, and he is also a professor, published author, and researcher. Don admires Mr. Crandon as an intellectual before he realizes that Crandon is also the Grand Chairman of POSAT. When Don finds out that Crandon is a member of the secret society, he is shocked. Don knows that Crandon is a highly intelligent person, and POSAT seems like a scam. When Crandon explains the truth about the ancient society, its history, its goals, and its ability to pick the finest individuals to join its ranks, Don listens carefully because of his prior connection to Crandon. Had the Grand Chairman been a complete stranger to Don, he might have written the entire experience off as a manipulative scheme or a simply impossible endeavor. After one short conversation and a tour of the building, Don is willing to join POSAT as a member. Crandon is a persuasive salesman and a true believer in the organization and its goal to make a more civil society. "
"<s>   What is POSAT?     By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course coming events cast their shadows     before, but this shadow was 400 years long!      The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines:     MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!     What is the secret source of those profound     principles that can solve the problems of life?     Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.     Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU     can alter the course of your life!     Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!     The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth     POSAT     an ancient secret society     Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand.     Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of      YourLife and Psychology     that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.     Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.     It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the      Antivivisectionist Gazette     the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible.     Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in      The Bulletin of Physical Research     . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object.     He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.     It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it.     I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters.     Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form.     Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.     He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility.     Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation.     To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity.     What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire.     I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out!     The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin.     Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?     Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers!     The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT?     Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.     It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed.     Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him.     His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future.     It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them.     Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.     After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too.     Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise.       Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these?     She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort.     This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?'     Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab?     Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?     Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants?     He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket?     He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him.     His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.     Dear Doctor Alford:     We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you.     The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?     It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning.       Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!     But it was impossible!     He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem!     Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or—     But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information.     His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents?     Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic.     At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday.  <doc-sep>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility.     But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him.     Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time!     Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.     Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster.     For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank.     Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?     Come with me, said Crandon.     He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine.     This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don?     But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late?     Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!     Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator.     But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all.     Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes.     There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us.     I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us?     Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question.     Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?     Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you?     Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.     Enroll me as a member, he said.   <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms.     It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT.     He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell.     The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect.     The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary.      Notthe Mata-Hari type     , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter.     She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room—     She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it.     The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis.     The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor.     Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things.     Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud.       Now I've done it!     thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered.     In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube.     There were no wires!     Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries.     The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded.     Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment!       But this is impossible!     he thought.      We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction!       And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth?     The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now—     With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked!     A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous.     Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice.     Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find.     She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman.       But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony.     Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it.     His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened.     He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent?     His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world!     Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain.     Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply.       You're     the GrandChairman of POSAT?     He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer?     I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid.  <doc-sep></s>","The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth, POSAT, is an ancient secret society. It was founded by a genius of a man who lived during the Italian Renaissance, roughly 400 years ago. The founder was a mathematician and scientist, and he invented calculus, created the quantum theory of light, and wrote Maxwell’s equations. However, he did not get credit for any of these ideas. He also designed the atomic reactor that Don sees in the laboratory of the building. The founder understood how dangerous the atomic bomb was, and he did not want to give his peers the tools to create such a powerful weapon. He did not trust men who were at war with one another over political power. Still, he did not want his knowledge to vanish when he died, so he created POSAT. He was willing to share his scientific and mathematical secrets, but he did not wish for untrustworthy people to get their hands on the information until it would be safe to do so. The founder also wanted POSAT to work towards a more peaceful society where everyone could be trusted to share knowledge and information without the fear of it leading to catastrophic events. In the centuries since the society was founded, the members have invented new tools and technologies that are not available anywhere else in the world, like the atomic reactor shield and the lightbulbs that hang above each Renaissance painting in the waiting room. Yet, the secret society’s main goal is to create a civilized society, not new inventions. In an effort to make that vision a reality, members of POSAT created a very large computer that seeks to decode human motivation. The computer used Don’s multiple choice questionnaire to determine that Don would be a good fit for the society because he is trustworthy. Although it seems like POSAT should involve more renowned scientists and peacekeepers to make sure it accomplishes its mission, it must also guard all of its secrets, and in an increasingly surveilled state, that would be nearly impossible to do while also including great thought leaders. "
"<s>   What is POSAT?     By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course coming events cast their shadows     before, but this shadow was 400 years long!      The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines:     MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!     What is the secret source of those profound     principles that can solve the problems of life?     Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.     Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU     can alter the course of your life!     Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!     The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth     POSAT     an ancient secret society     Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand.     Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of      YourLife and Psychology     that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.     Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.     It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the      Antivivisectionist Gazette     the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible.     Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in      The Bulletin of Physical Research     . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object.     He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.     It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it.     I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters.     Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form.     Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.     He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility.     Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation.     To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity.     What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire.     I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out!     The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin.     Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?     Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers!     The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT?     Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.     It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed.     Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him.     His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future.     It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them.     Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.     After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too.     Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise.       Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these?     She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort.     This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?'     Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab?     Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?     Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants?     He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket?     He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him.     His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.     Dear Doctor Alford:     We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you.     The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?     It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning.       Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home!     But it was impossible!     He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem!     Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or—     But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information.     His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents?     Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic.     At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.     He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility.     But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him.     Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time!     Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.     Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster.     For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank.     Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?     Come with me, said Crandon.     He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine.     This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don?     But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late?     Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!     Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator.     But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all.     Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes.     There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us.     I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us?     Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question.     Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?     Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you?     Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.     Enroll me as a member, he said.   <doc-sep></s>","Bill and Elizabeth are minor characters in the story, but they are key in demonstrating how POSAT’S recruiting efforts work. Bill, Elizabeth, and Don all see the same magazine advertisement and decide to send their coupons in the mail and receive an informational pamphlet in return. Bill is motivated by his desire to change his life. He has lost his job and feels useless and dejected. Elizabeth wants to join the ancient society because she truly believes it can offer her profound wisdom. She also believes that her cats are her family members reincarnated, so she’s clearly a gullible person who hopes to find magic and miracles in her everyday life. Don is curious about the advertisement, and as a naturally skeptical person, he assumes it’s all a hoax.POSAT’s correspondence with the three highly different individuals starts out the same, but after gaining a little bit of insight into each person’s background, job, religious beliefs, and motivation for joining the society, the people at POSAT individualize Bill, Elizabeth, and Don’s responses. Bill receives a pamphlet with vague answers to life’s problems, while Elizabeth gets literature about topics like the sacred cats of ancient Egypt. She is also offered an official membership to the group and told to contribute $5 per month. Don, however, is given an in-depth psychological exam. Towards the end of the story, Mr. Crandon reveals how POSAT’s magazine advertisements work to attract people to the secret society. The new supercomputer they have invented has created the perfect combination of intrigue, symbolism, and promise of knowledge to get the right peoples’ attention. Don, for example, was immediately taken by POSAT’s logo, although he could not explain why. When people like Bill and Elizabeth apply to become members, they are pacified through other means. Elizabeth is an example of a religious fanatic who contributes to the society financially while also feeling deeply satisfied at her inclusion. Bill is an example of someone who is desperate and wants to try to join the society as a way to change his life.  Since POSAT wants a more civilized and peaceful society, they work with those people by finding them new jobs or renovating their homes. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>   I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    <doc-sep></s>","The narrator is awoken by a female voice in his head. He recounts his time as a conformist citizen of Northem, a futuristic dystopian civilization: one day, he wakes up and regards himself in the mirror, observing signs of aging on his face. He sees the toll of the past two years, since the renumbering. The narrator explains that, as part of ensuring the efficiency of Northem, the designation of each citizen is periodically changed. In the most recent one, everyone was assigned six numerical digits and a prefix or suffix of four letters, which often spelled something pronounceable – for the narrator, the four letters spelled an unspeakably vulgar word. As a result, the narrator is forced to infract from his job and assume non-productive status and begins encountering difficulties in quotidien tasks, such as receiving his realfood package. Furthermore, his designation prevents him from acquiring gainful employment and reassuming productive status, as well as the ability to mate. The narrator then recounts hearing the woman’s voice for the first time. She encourages him to change his name, a difficult thing to do because of its implied criticism of the state. The voice returns in his sleep, nearly every night. Driven by his loneliness and social ostracization, the narrator brings himself to the Govpub Office, a sort of government center, in an attempt to change his designation. In the underground office of his local Govpub Office, the narrator navigates his way to the Numbering and Identity section with help of a cyb, an automated assistant. In the round room that is the Number and Identity department, he observes a remarkably attractive woman at the information desk. Though he is nervous at first, fearing that he will have to share with her his embarrassing name, he dismisses his hesitance and approaches her. He reluctantly shares his name, and asks that she direct him to information concerning state serial designations. As the girl, whose name she reveals is LARA, leads the narrator to information bank 29 where the requested information is stored, they share an inappropriate moment: Lara trips and the narrator grabs her arms. Lara’s demeanor changes, and she now conducts herself in an all-business fashion. At bank 29, Lara explains to the narrator the tasks he must complete in order to change his name, including traveling to the capital. On their way back to the main room, the narrator makes a joke which elicits a laugh from Lara. As she enters the rotunda, she abruptly stops laughing. The narrator, following closely behind, quickly realizes why: two Deacons, officers of the state, are at the central desk. On the night before his departure to the capital, the narrator once again hears the mysterious female voice in his head. She tells him that he is attracted to Lara. On the transport to the capital the narrator sees a young couple holding hands, and pictures himself with Lara in their position."
"<s>You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition.     The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform.     If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight.     There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.     The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.     We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa.     Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned.     Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.     A four letter word.     Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.     Mine was.     It was unspeakable.     The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.     I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself.     I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons.     Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer.  <doc-sep>   I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now.     When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?     Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?     He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week.     She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna?     Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates.     He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.     He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions.     Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny?     Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week.     She's five already? Harry asked.     Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book.     And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved.  <doc-sep></s>","Northem, one of the two superstates of the world and home to the Narrator, is ruled by the State. It is highly efficient, and allocates alphanumeric designations to its citizens to be used as names. In the most recent renumbering, the State assigns the narrator an unspeakable four-letter designation. 	The State, through its officers the Deacons, enforces norms of acceptability. These norms include the ranges of physical attractiveness within which women are required to stay, the flat tone of voice in which citizens must speak, and the facial expressions citizens are allowed to display. Additionally, the State regulates sexual behaviour: mating is only allowed in Eugenic Centers, and those who infract upon sexual norms are sent to a prison planet called Marscol. 	The State further regulates the allocation of realfood, such as eggs, which is a valuable commodity. When the balance of trade between Northem and Southem, the other superstate, fluctuates, more or less realfood becomes available. Non-productive members of society, so long as they are conformists, or loyal members of the state, are cared for by the State."
"<s>   I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted.     They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that?     Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme.     Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind.     Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again.     There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain.     Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end.     Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity.     Well? demanded Syme.     Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it.     Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation.     The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen.     Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again.     Nothing happened.     The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change.  <doc-sep></s>","As the narrator finds it increasingly difficult to find a sexual partner as a result of his state-appointed designation, he begins to hear a mysterious female voice in his dreams. She first encourages him to change his name. Initially, he worries that his sleep-learner, a wearable head device which enables learning during sleep, has malfunctioned, but he finds no evidence of this. The narrator hears the voice nearly every night. He often worries about the voice, as the contents of its speech are heretical. She encourages him to go to the Govpub office, a sort of government office in his locality, and he eventually obliges. On the night before the narrator is slated to take a transport to the capital to change his name, he hears the voice again. It encourages him to persevere, and that he is attracted to Lara, a woman he had met earlier in the week. The voice further pushes him to pursue a relationship with Lara once he is able to change his name."
"<s>   I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    <doc-sep>   The Snare     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by WEISS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none!        I glanced at the path we had made across the      Mare Serenitatis     . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt.     Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity.     Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth.     We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface.     The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before.  <doc-sep>Bombay, India     June 8     Mr. Joe Binkle     Plaza Ritz Arms     New York City     Dear Joe:     Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born.     Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation.     As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera.     Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.     I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again.     The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information.     I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness.     I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely.     All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task!     Farewell till later.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep></s>","The narrator, who was designated an unspeakably vulgar four-letter designation during the last renumbering, has been negatively affected by his new name. Because of its distracting effect on those who learn it, he is forced to resign from his job studying magnetic mechanics and assume non-productive status, which in turn hampers his ability to acquire realfood. Theoretical research which the narrator privately conducts could not be published. His designation further prevents him from participating in group games at the rec center, special interest clubs, and State Loyalty chapters. The narrator is unable to mate since, at the Eugenic Centers where mating is regulated by the State, he must submit an application which must be approved by women who are authorized to mate with him."
"<s>   I, the Unspeakable     By WALT SHELDON     Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       What's in a name? might be very dangerous     to ask in certain societies, in which sticks     and stones are also a big problem!      I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep.           Do it!      she said.       Please do it! For me!          It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.     I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.     I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way.     I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.     I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor.     Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds.     I'd go out again today.     The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.     As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag.     Everything came back in a rush—     My name. The dream and      her     voice. And her suggestion.       Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk?    <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing.     My God, he's—he's gone.     Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him?     The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone.     Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?     Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?     Well, I'll be damned!     Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way.     Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun!     Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria.     The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand.     I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout.     The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.  <doc-sep>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  <doc-sep></s>","Typically, people are unwelcoming of the narrator upon learning his name. During his job search, he is welcome in virtue of his previous experience in space drives, but is quickly dismissed upon sharing his name. In submitting his application to mate at a Eugenic Center, the clerk dismisses the narrator’s chances of finding a mate with a reminder that the women are able to refuse. Lara, the information clerk at the department of Numbering and Identity, is taken aback and hesitates in recording the narrator’s personal information. "
"<s>  Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","Gregory Malcolm is a secretary to J. Foster Andrews, the wealthy leader of the Galactic Metals Corporation. In the control room of Andrews’s space yacht the Carefree, Sparks, the radioman, fails to downplay the seriousness of their situation to Malcolm: the Carefree has been sucked into an unpredictable vortex and the fate of the ship and its occupants is uncertain. 	Malcolm approaches the dining room, where Andrews and members of his family are enjoying breakfast. He is unnoticed by his employers, but takes note of Andrews’s beautiful daughter Crystal and her betrothed Ralph Breadon. Suddenly, Andrews calls Malcolm over to complain about the honey and to enquire about the state of the Galactic market. Malcolm, in virtue of the fact that the vortex has blocked communication to and from the Carefree, is unable to answer. Crystal asks Malcolm if they are in danger, but before he is able to answer the question, Crystal’s older brother Bert enters drunkenly and suggests that they are doomed. Sparks abruptly enters the room and confirms Bert’s drunken suspicion: they have been caught in a gravitation downdraft and must evacuate to a life skiff. On the skiff with members of the Andrews family, Sparks, a cabin-boy, and Breadon, Malcolm navigates above a celestial body and observes the crash of the Carefree. Just as Malcolm surrenders control of the skiff to Breadon, its engines engage and they quickly fall towards the planet. Breadon deftly manipulates the controls, and they land safely. As Malcolm quickly congratulates Breadon on his landing, the latter blames and berates the secretary for the fall. The cabin-boy, however, points out that Breadon’s sleeve was responsible for their descent. Malcolm and Sparks examine the damage to the skiff, and Sparks shares his frustrations about Malcolm’s submissive, secretarial behaviour. Malcolm concludes that they are on a rarely-visited, unpopulated, vast, and dangerous moon of Saturn called Titan. Malcolm resolves not to tell the Andrews, fearing that the information would only make them panic. Meanwhile, the Andrews family are in disarray over how best to remove necessities from the skiff.Breadon delegates to Sparks the role of establishing communication. Sparks, however, responds poorly and reveals that they are on Titan, and that their chances of rescue are dim. "
"<s>  Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it?     Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—     You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan.     What? Oh, you mean—?     Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it.     His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—     Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean      anything     . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk—     Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering.     Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?     Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.     The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor.     J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles.     'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was      so     hungry)!     Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say.     You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly.  <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—     And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....     Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls.     What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.     The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.     In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully.     Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined      perilens     , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed.  <doc-sep></s>","On life skiff number four, the skiff onto which Gregory Malcolm had evacuated were himself, his employers J. Foster Andrews, the head of the Galactic Metals Corporations, and his family: Andrews’s tall and well-styled wife Enid, his plain-featured, out of shape but beautiful-eyed sister Maud, Maud’s poodle Cuddles, Andrews’s drunk son Bert, Andrews’s beautiful daughter Crystal, and the man to whom Crystal was promised, Ralph Breadon. Malcolm describes Ralph as tall and strong-knit, with tanned skin. Also aboard the skiff were the maid of the Andrews family, ‘Tina Laney, a cabin boy named Tommy O’Doul, and the radio engineer of the Carefree named Hannigan, who is also called Sparks. "
"<s>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.     He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—     He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster.     Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan.     Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay.     Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?     I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull.     Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is      dangerous     ! There are—     I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way—     Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!     And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action!     Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.     Yes, sir, he said.     Hannigan groaned and followed him.      III     Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser.     Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh?     That's what I said.     And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms?     Breadon flushed darkly.     I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator?     Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the      Carefree     . Best equipment throughout.     Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I      am     a radio operator, and there      was     a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch—     That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken?     It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good.     Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it?     Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it.     Breadon frowned.     I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—     Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we?     Breadon glared at him wrathfully.     Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that!     O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol?      SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe.     They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees.     Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass—     Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite.     Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life.     How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm?  <doc-sep>  Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—     And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....     Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls.     What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.     The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.     In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully.     Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined      perilens     , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed.  <doc-sep></s>","Gregory Malcolm is a secretary to J. Foster Andrews, father of Crystal Andrews, who is promised to Ralph Breadon. Malcolm is attracted to Crystal, and dislikes Breadon’s appearance, though he admires it as well. In the life skiff, Breadon behaves in a domineering manner towards Malcolm, suggesting that he hand over the controls of the skiff. During the transfer of controls, however, Breadon’s sleeve is caught on a switch and causes the skiff to crash towards Titan. During their descent, Malcolm attempts to control their trajectory but is dismissed by Breadon, who successfully lands the skiff on the moon of Saturn. Malcolm quickly congratulates Breadon, but is berated for interfering. Despite this, however, Malcolm later rationalizes Breadon’s arrogant behaviour and maintains to Sparks, the radio engineer, that he holds no grudge against him, seemingly hiding his anger behind his job as a secretary. "
"<s>  Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence.       That?          She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.     Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews.     Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.     But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?     You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out.     Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.     Ionization! That means atmosphere!     Greg said, Yes.     And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?     But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.     You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?     But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother.     Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes!     The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son.     Bert—you're drunk!     Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.     Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter.     J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice.     Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?     Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up.     Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.     Is there anything we can do?     Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible.     In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs?     A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not—     But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety.     Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff—      quick     ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash!      II     Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there.     He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor.     J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.     Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape.     Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.     Somewhere in space. He looked through the      perilens     . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht      Carefree     .     Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.     For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the      Carefree     ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the      Carefree     was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....     And Greg Malcolm turned from the      perilens     , shaken.     Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded.     Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught?     I don't know. I couldn't see for sure.     You must have seen. Are we the only ones?     I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not.     Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm.  <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It      seemed     all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.     They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.      Insist     on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine?     His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs.     How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening.     He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly:      Thou shalt not inundate.     The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant      Singing in the Rain     . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses.     The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it.     Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him.     He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered      Cuddle Up a Little Closer     .     He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.      My dearMrs. Deshazaway.     Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward.      My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.     No.Contrived. How about a simple,      Dear Mrs. Deshazaway     . That might beit.      I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home....       Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider....     The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning      When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day     .     The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off.     At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line.     Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September.      And all the rest havethirty-one.     What a strange people, the ancients!     He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.  <doc-sep></s>","Generally, the Andrews family is dismissive of their household staff, which include Gregory Malcolm, ‘Tina Laney, Sparks, and a cabin-boy. J. Foster Andrews, the head of the family, impatiently calls for his secretary, Gregory Malcolm, to complain about the quality of their morning honey. J. Foster learns that Malcolm doesn’t know that state of the Galactic market, but dismisses the reason that Malcolm provides, instead concluding that the radio technician Sparks is drunk. 	During the evacuation to the life skiff, Crystal Andrews, J. Foster’s daughter, remembers her maid ‘Tina Laney and asks where she is, apparently paying mind to her safety. In contrast, her fiancé Ralph Breadon is dismissive of Malcolm, and later blames him for the life skiff’s crashing into Titan. Upon the cabin-boy’s revelation that it was, in fact, Breadon who inadvertently caused the skiff’s malfunction, Breadon strikes the cabin-boy. 	On Titan, ‘Tina is instructed to remove things from the skiff by the women of the Andrews family, who do not help, and Sparks and Malcolm are harshly instructed to make themselves useful. "
"<s>  Wanderers of the Wolf Moon     By NELSON S. BOND     They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked,     the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had     to build a new life on a hostile world. And the     man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the     bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures     had come through the pages of a book.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow.     Greg said, Why not?     Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.     Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the      Carefree     .     Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's      that     bad, eh,Sparks?     What bad? I just told you—     I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against.     We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?     I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family.     I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?     The radioman shrugged.     Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens.     And the controls?     As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone.     So?     We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope.     Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome.     Sparks stared at him querulously.     You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody.     Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said.     Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering.  <doc-sep>   IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  <doc-sep>When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts.     Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.     Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff.     What in hell do you want? Extrone asked.     They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began.     Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice.     Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir.     Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?     We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir.     So? Extrone mocked.     We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it.     Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here.     The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir....     Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you?     Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.     You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said.     We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir.  <doc-sep></s>","	The story begins in the control room of J. Foster Andrews’s space yacht the Carefree, and then proceeds to the dining room. Outside of the Carefreem is a dynamic, glittering web of bright violet light, in stark contrast to the typical black of space. 	As the members of the Andrews family and their household staff escape the Carefree onto a life skiff, the setting changes to the atmosphere of the moon Titan. Now free of the vortex which caused the shimmering lights, the space around their skiff is dark. 	After their uncontrolled descent onto Titan, the passengers of the skiff find themselves at the foot of a ring of shallow mountains, standing on rough soil. The mountains above are green and lush, with periodic caves along their face. In the sky is an image of Saturn, which causes the gravitational pull on the planet to be similar to Earth’s. More broadly, Titan, the moon they are on, is uninhabited and rarely visited. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   DELAY IN TRANSIT     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by SIBLEY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is       terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse       on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror       is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!        Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.     Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight.     First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city?     Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he?       Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay.     A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy.     Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he      could     walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?     A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage.     Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind.     It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time.     Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim.     Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain.     I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police.     Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently.     That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either.     Weapons?     The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.     Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself.     Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence.     Let's have it anyway.     His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet.     That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.     Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be.     Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?  <doc-sep>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too.     No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk—     Whonk.     —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister.     How about the surgical mission?     A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly.     I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out.     Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah—     Fiasco.     —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop.     The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance.     The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal....     The      Moss Rock     was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the      aide     the Groaci's      memoires     will needto keep their tentacles off Fust.     But diplomatic usage—     Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong.     That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively.     Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood.     But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—     Count me out. All groups give me an itch.     Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group.     Uh-huh, Retief said.     Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him.   <doc-sep></s>","Denton Cassal is a sales engineer of Neuronics, Inc., from Earth. On a business trip to Tunney 21, he awaits his next ship on the planet of Godolph. One evening, Cassal is warned by Dimanche, an informative electronic companion, that he is being stalked by a man. The man's motives are not completely known, but according to Dimanche, the man is intending to murder Cassal. One thing is known, which is that the man's objective is related to Cassal being stranded on Godolph. As it begins to rain heavily, Cassal attempts to evade the man with the help of Dimanche; he follows a Godolphian girl and turns into an alleyway. As they pass by the man, Dimanche notes that he is becoming increasingly suspicious. Cassal leads the man into an alleyway, and as the dusk turns to darkness, Dimanche assists him in dodging and fighting the man. With a lighter-turned-knife, Cassal is able to attack the man and stab him several times. According to Dimanche, the man is presumed dead, although moments later the man strangles Cassal and steals his wallet. The next day, Cassal visits the Travelers Aid Bureau, where Murra Foray, the First Counselor, prods him for information, including why he is on his way to Tunney 21. Avoiding the question, Cassal asks about the status of the next ship to Tunney 21. He learns that the ship departed from Godolph that morning, and that someone named Denton Cassal did board it; he then realizes that the man who attacked him the night before used the identification from his wallet to board that ship. Stranded and uncertain of how long he would have to wait for another ship, Cassal is out of options. He contributes a donation to the bureau as he leaves. Dimanche reports that he tried to gather information on Foray, but only got her home planet, as electronic guards were blocking the rest of the information, which Dimanche finds suspicious. On his way out of the agency, Cassal encounters a man that works for Traveler's Aid, but flees after being asked about Murra Foray. Cassal continues on as he remains stranded on Godolph. "
"<s>   DELAY IN TRANSIT     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by SIBLEY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is       terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse       on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror       is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!        Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.     Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight.     First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city?     Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he?       Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay.     A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy.     Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he      could     walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?     A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage.     Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind.     It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time.     Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim.     Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain.     I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police.     Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently.     That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either.     Weapons?     The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.     Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself.     Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence.     Let's have it anyway.     His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet.     That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.     Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be.     Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?  <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though.     The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.     Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite.     Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.     Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette.     The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel?     I'm curious. Turn here.     Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there.     It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other.     He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.     Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route.     I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now.     Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical.     That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality.     Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you.     He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light.     I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'.     He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue?     None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround.  <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.     A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by.     Hey! shouted Cassal.     Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance.     He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back.     I'm armed! shouted Cassal.     That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you.     Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.     Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing.     Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall.     To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low.     Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away.     Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid.     Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent.     Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove.     Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible.     Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief.     Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face.     Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche.  <doc-sep></s>","Dimanche is a device attached to Cassal's ear that is able to collect physiological data on a person, including nervous systems and physical reactions to stimuli. In addition, Dimanche is able to understand what people subvocalize, or think to themselves in their subconscious. In the story, Dimanche's abilities are shown when he is able to read the thoughts of Cassal's attacker as well as his body's reactions to Cassal's movements, such as his heart rate and blood pressure. Dimanche's features also give Cassal an advantage in his work as a salesperson, as he is able to gauge people's thoughts, motives, and desires. Dimanche is a secret kept from the rest of the galaxy, and Cassal is hesitant to tell others about his abilities."
"<s>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior.     Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations.     Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched.     I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know?     Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.     He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.     You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them.     Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely.     There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that.     His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth,      if he could     . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor.     Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem?     I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21.     Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave.       Rickrock C     arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning.     Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive?     Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked.     He didn't answer.  <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them.     The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What      did     thethug want?     Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it.     And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk.     Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious.     Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain.     He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it.     A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age.     Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place.     The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.     Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range.  <doc-sep>   DELAY IN TRANSIT     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by SIBLEY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is       terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse       on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror       is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!        Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.     Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight.     First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city?     Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he?       Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay.     A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy.     Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he      could     walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?     A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage.     Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind.     It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time.     Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim.     Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain.     I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police.     Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently.     That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either.     Weapons?     The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.     Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself.     Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence.     Let's have it anyway.     His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet.     That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.     Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be.     Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?  <doc-sep></s>","Cassal is sent on a business trip by Neuronics, Inc., to visit Tunney 21 to see a man. Tunney 21, according to the first counselor, is home to some of the galaxy's most genius scientists. It is later revealed that Neuronics, Inc. wants that man on their staff back on Earth. The man would work towards the company's goal of developing instantaneous radio; this radio system would impact the entire galaxy, technology that could share information with every planet with no time delay. This radio would dominate means of transportation, communications, and commerce. For these reasons, Cassal is not eager to disclose his plans for going to Tunney 21."
"<s>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named.     Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.     The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner.     What's a Huntner?     A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her.     Any other information?     None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could.     I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing.     What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?     Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times.     Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered.     You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.     Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new.     The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed.     She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray?     The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.     Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone.  <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor.     We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though—     I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions.     She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time.     He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to.     As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians.     Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.     Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly—     He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage.     Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line.     A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman.     He got up, glowering. If that's all—     It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave.     A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient.     Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery.     He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical.     The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau.  <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door.     TRAVELERS AID BUREAU     Murra Foray, First Counselor     It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.     With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.     Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.     A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation.     Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information.     We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them.     Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor.     You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen.     Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.     Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business.     The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.  <doc-sep></s>","Murra Foray is the First Counselor of the Traveler's Aid Bureau on Godolph. Little is known about her personally, other than the fact that she is a Huntner, a people from across the Galaxy. Foray was an intimidating, cold woman, who was particularly curious about Cassal. Upon Cassal's arrival, she interrogates him about his personal life before offering help. Additionally, once Cassal realizes he had missed the ship to Tunney 21, and is stranded on Godolph, Murra Foray offers little support or sympathy. Instead, she reprimands him for lack of identification and nevertheless presses for a financial contribution. Foray is a mysterious character, whose motives are questioned, especially by Dimanche; while Dimanche is usually able to read people, Foray had electronic guards protecting information, indicating that the Traveler's Aid Bureau is hiding something."
"<s>   DELAY IN TRANSIT     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by SIBLEY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is       terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse       on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror       is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!        Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.     Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight.     First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city?     Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he?       Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay.     A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy.     Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he      could     walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?     A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage.     Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind.     It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time.     Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim.     Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain.     I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police.     Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently.     That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either.     Weapons?     The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.     Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself.     Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence.     Let's have it anyway.     His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet.     That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.     Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be.     Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the      Soscites II     beexperiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If theywere, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just asuggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing ofinformation.     Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser.He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time.And the      Soscites II     would not complete its orbit of the planet fortwo weeks yet.     Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown usedto wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about thevicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he wentback inside.     Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from thecaptain himself:     WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIRSCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!     H. A. HESSE, CAPT.     Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with hisfingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from hishands with it and dropped it to the floor.     He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregardingthe captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial forserious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience onlyto the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment.It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages fromthe ship on his trip.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place in a city on Godolph, a planet that acts as a transfer location in between stars. Godolph is a threatening and violent city, not safe for ordinary humans. A unique feature of Godolph is that its environment is specifically catered to natives, where the weather is controlled, often with heavy rain. The city is compared to Venice, where water is used as a mode of transport and essential to engineering. Additionally, at dusk the city becomes dark for travelers, but bright for its natives. "
"<s>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER     BY KEITH LAUMER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He was as ancient as time—and as strange as     his own frightful battle against incredible odds!      I     In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection.     Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation.     Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon.     I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme.     Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions?     I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—     Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way.     I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea—     You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—     You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!  <doc-sep></s>","Following World War III at the end of the 20th century, American society is dependent upon a machine created by the Thinker's Foundation; this machine, named Maizie, has the ability to answer any question posed to it, and it is used often by politicians and public figures for societal decision making. Jorj Helmuth, a Thinker with hypnotic abilities, awakes with a girl, Caddy, asleep beside him. Jorj is struck with a revelation about new developments in his work towards space domination, and he sends a letter to a group of physicists calling for a meeting later that afternoon. Jorj is then alerted that the President has arrived to consult Maizie. He commences the daily procedure of feeding the machine questions through a tape, and meanwhile attention turns to a broadcast of a rocket taking off to Mars. The Secretary of Space, who joined the President, is wary of his exclusion in this project, but disregards it as he credits Maizie for the decision. Jorj discloses that the Thinkers plan to find ways to gain access to and control of Martian minds. As Maizie begins answering questions, one of them sparks curiosity, asking whether Maizie is short for Maelzel. The machine responds with no as the officials are perplexed by the question, which references a character in a story by Edgar Allen Poe in which a machine was found to be fake and operated by a man. Apparently, the question came from a member of Opperly's group, a team of physicists; Jorj advises that the issue be looked into. Later, scientists Opperly and Farquar discuss the previous events. Opperly says that he covered for Farquar, who submitted the question, but still disagrees with his decision to dig at the Thinkers. Farquar believes that the Thinkers, along with Maizie, are fakes and ought to be exposed. Farquar and Opperly go back and forth, debating whether or not exposing the Thinkers is worth violence or energy, when Farquar receives a message from Jorj regarding the meeting about his space project. Opperly is skeptical of Jorj's motives, but Farquar plans to go anyway. On his way home, Jorj ponders the future of the Thinkers with excitement, eagerly awaiting a future where they would be on the same level of the Scientists, and where they would build the true Maizie."
"<s>   Appointment in Tomorrow     BY FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Is it possible to have a world without moral values?     Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?      The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs.     They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.     It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.     Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.     Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.  <doc-sep>   THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER     BY KEITH LAUMER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He was as ancient as time—and as strange as     his own frightful battle against incredible odds!      I     In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection.     Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation.     Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon.     I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme.     Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions?     I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—     Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way.     I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea—     You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—     You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!  <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!     Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.     The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke.     Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from?     The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong?     Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.     From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.  <doc-sep></s>","Maizie is a large contraption that occupies a room in the Thinker's Foundation. It consists of various controls, cables, and synapses, more than the human brain. It reads questions through information fed on a tape. Once Maizie processes the questions and conjures up answers, it delivers information back through a man who translates the tape into an answer. The main point regarding Maizie is that little to no one knows how it truly works, which is why it is regarded even by the President as a superior guide for intelligence. Maizie appears to be intimidating with its incomprehensible parts and gadgets, but the process in which it delivers simple answers to questions allows the public to trust it with decisions."
"<s>   Appointment in Tomorrow     BY FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Is it possible to have a world without moral values?     Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?      The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs.     They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.     It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.     Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.     Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.  <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed.     But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle?     Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?     Now you are justifying the Thinkers!     No, I leave that to history.     And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see.     I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience....     The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?     The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry.     The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.     What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this.     He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron?     No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help.     An invitation?     Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?     The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you.     What do you mean? Farquar asked.  <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle.     Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!     Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.     Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country.     Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians—     Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj.     Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.  <doc-sep></s>","The Thinkers are magicians who dominate the current society. When America was in crisis post-World War III, they provided solutions to problems and questions, and acted as a more structured, moral, human group for leadership than physicists prior. The Thinkers are the creators of Maizie, a brain-like computer that answers any question; Maizie is used by many in government to make drastic decisions with the goal of preserving humanity. The Thinkers are also working towards a larger plan of moving their work to Mars, ultimately dominating Martians the same way they dominated Earth. There is also controversy surrounding the Thinkers, mainly from the Physicists, who believe that their work relies on the desperation of society and is fraudulent."
"<s>   Appointment in Tomorrow     BY FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Is it possible to have a world without moral values?     Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?      The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs.     They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.     It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.     Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.     Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.  <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady?     Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.     And didn't she go off with a Thinker?     If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation?     Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition.     Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise.     Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world.     Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off?     Not exactly.     You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily.     Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims.     Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men.  <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed.     But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle?     Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?     Now you are justifying the Thinkers!     No, I leave that to history.     And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see.     I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience....     The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?     The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry.     The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.     What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this.     He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron?     No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help.     An invitation?     Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?     The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you.     What do you mean? Farquar asked.  <doc-sep></s>","Farquar sparks the driving conflict of the story; the question he submits threatens the authority and legitimacy of the Thinkers, implying that the machine that guides society's decisions is a fake. This question disturbs the officials present at Maizie's event. Farquar also attempts to convince Opperly, a major Scientist, that the Thinkers should be exposed and called out for their deception. He is eager to take action against them. Farquar plays an additional role in the story as someone who Jorj must turn to for help; he is a skilled physician that the Thinkers need in order to develop their idea for a nuclear rocket. Farquar determines the fate of Jorj and the Thinkers as someone who both poses a threat to them and is needed by them."
"<s>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady?     Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.     And didn't she go off with a Thinker?     If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation?     Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition.     Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise.     Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world.     Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off?     Not exactly.     You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily.     Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims.     Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men.  <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed.     But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle?     Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?     Now you are justifying the Thinkers!     No, I leave that to history.     And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see.     I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience....     The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?     The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry.     The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.     What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this.     He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron?     No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help.     An invitation?     Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?     The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you.     What do you mean? Farquar asked.  <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists.     He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets.     Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous?     Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile.     Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future....     By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are.     Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you.     No, Opperly said.     I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet.  <doc-sep></s>","Opperly and Farquar are both physicists. They both have the same role in society as possessing knowledge and abilities to create technology and machinery. However, despite their similar titles, they are drastically different, both in appearance and character. Opperly is an elderly man, who looks timid and meek, though wise, next to the young, large, and impulsive Farquar. Opperly acts as a rational voice, discouraging Farquar from his rebellious and violent nature, specifically towards the Thinkers. Opperly, having lived through history, is hesitant to threaten the authority of the Thinkers and instead understands that society is in need of them. He believes that scientists should not have a place in taking action and being violent, and instead should allow the Thinkers to uphold the nation. Farquar, on the other hand, is a man of action who believes the Thinkers are immoral and inauthentic. He contrasts Opperly's reasonable nature with passion and free thinking."
"<s>  Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  <doc-sep>   DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  <doc-sep>It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance.     All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her.     But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE.     Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction?     She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile.     Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial?     I shook my head. Not me, I said.     But I knew I would.   <doc-sep></s>","The story begins with Daniel Oak going into Ravenhurst’s office to talk with him about another job. Ravenhurst tells Daniel that there is an issue with the robot McGuire because the robot will only listen to Daniel’s commands. This happened because of the way the robot was programmed and Daniel happened to trigger the programming that attaches the robot to whoever the first person was to speak to it. Ravenhurst does not like Daniel’s methods but hires him anyways to fix the situation. Daniel believes that he is hired because Ravenhurst is afraid of losing his manager position. Ravenhurst hires and sends Daniel to the planet Ceres to work with the roboticists at Viking. Daniel puts on his vacuum suit and boards a flitterboat to Ceres. The reader learns that Daniel is a double agent as he actually works for the UN government’s Secret Service agency, also known as the Political Survey Division.Daniel is sent to Ceres to help with the robot McGuire. When he arrives at Ceres he is met by Colonel Harrington Brock. He goes to have a drink with Colonel Brock and they create a separate plan from Ravenhurst and team up to implement their own solution to the McGuire problem. "
"<s>  Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  <doc-sep>   DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  <doc-sep>It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance.     All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her.     But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE.     Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction?     She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile.     Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial?     I shook my head. Not me, I said.     But I knew I would.   <doc-sep></s>","Daniel Oak states that he has an office in New York and describes himself as a Confidential Expediter. He has worked with Ravenhurst before and the story begins with an understanding that Daniel recently completed a job for Ravenhurst. He later mentions that he is a double agent. Daniel works for the Political Survey Division branch of the System Census Bureau for the UN government. Unbeknownst to most of the System’s citizens, the Political Survey Division is the Secret Service arm of the UN government. A flitterboat is a more economical option than a full spaceship. It is described as having a single gravitoinertial engine. It is meant to have the most basic necessities that are needed for a person to survive their journey, which includes oxygen, water, and the requirement of food necessary. The flitterboat is not necessarily more affordable, but it does provide the purpose of transporting from one Belt to another Belt. Daniel Oak details how a vacuum suit is needed to be worn in a flitterboat."
"<s>  Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey.     Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence.  [7]  A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did.     He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated.     Then why don't they do that?     There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent.     It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.     But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you  [8]  money?     It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink.     Perfectly. It's mutual.     He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme.     It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes.     I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?     It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am      certain     that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire!       What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody     , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud,  [9]  but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.     Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak.     In other words, I've got you over a barrel.     I don't deny it.     You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus.     How much?     Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it.     He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking.     My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else?     No.     Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel.     You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness  [10]  ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside.     I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room.     And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up.  <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.     We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles.     Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble.     Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.     Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals.     Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround  [21]  here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!     Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents.     Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible.     Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?     He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout.     So? What does this have to do with me?     He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my  [22]  pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation.     And you're going to go against his orders?     I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can.     I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire.     He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that.     Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say.     Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you—     I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want  [23]  me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job.     In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are  [24]  not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case.     No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't  [25]  possibly work for you.     He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink.           But     , I said, it would be a pleasure  [26]  to work      with     you.     He looked up quickly. How's that?     Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire  [27]  you because      you're     working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate.     Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?     His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal.     I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?     Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures.     Will do. Let me finish my guzzle.  <doc-sep></s>","Ravenhurst and Oak do not have a friendly relationship with each other. Occasionally, Ravenhurst occasionally hires Daniel to complete certain jobs for him. Ravenhurst is a high executive at a company that makes robots. He has recently hired Daniel to fix a problem with a robot and has to rehire him to fix a problem that Daniel caused on the previous job. Daniel is not loyal to Ravenhurst because he has acknowledged that he is a double agent working for the UN government and not just Ravenhurst. In addition, Daniel decides to team up with Colonel Harrington Brock to tackle the problem at hand. The Colonel says that he is doing it in Ravenhurst’s best interests. "
"<s>  Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  <doc-sep>   AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres.     For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce  [11]  automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt.     They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your      average     velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.     I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire.     Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says:      DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter     ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst.     Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of  [12]  various sub-governments all overthe System.     And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.     The Political Survey Division      does     evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of  [13]  the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division.     The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile.     McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he      was     the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor  [14]  did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space.     Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.     But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders—      fast     ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.     That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.     And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.  <doc-sep></s>","A flitterboat is a more economical option than a full spaceship. It is described as having a single gravitoinertial engine. It is meant to have the most basic necessities that are needed for a person to survive their journey, which includes oxygen, water, and the requirement of food necessary. The flitterboat is not necessarily more affordable, but it does provide the purpose of transporting from one Belt to another Belt. Daniel Oak details how a vacuum suit is needed to be worn in a flitterboat. Daniel describes the flitterboat as a tool that does its job, but is not comfortable. "
"<s>  Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.    ILLUSTRATED     BY     KRENKEL        HIS MASTER'S VOICE     ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION       Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou?     By RANDALL GARRETT      I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying.     When I entered the office, he was  [3]  sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:     Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?     I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will.     He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass  [4]  again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place.     Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.     Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.     I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.     He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein.     Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble.     I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level.     [5]     So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil.     He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract.     I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win.     Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one.     I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise.     Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him.     I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage.     My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite  [6]  the same as yours. Get to thepoint.     He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master.     As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself.     Now, it appears that      you     , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?     Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened.  <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres.     For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce  [11]  automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt.     They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your      average     velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.     I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire.     Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says:      DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter     ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst.     Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of  [12]  various sub-governments all overthe System.     And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.     The Political Survey Division      does     evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of  [13]  the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division.     The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile.     McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he      was     the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor  [14]  did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space.     Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.     But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders—      fast     ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.     That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.     And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.  <doc-sep>   AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  <doc-sep></s>",The most recent McGuire is the seventh edition. It is described as being more mobile as it is a spacecraft. It is potentially dangerous because it can move at thousands of miles per second. The most recent version is different from the previous six because it follows Asimov’s famous Three Laws of Robotics more closely than the other versions. The laws emphasize that a robot should define a human being and making sure the robot does not hurt a human. That has previously proven difficult. McGuire version 7 circumnavigated the issue by defining whatever first awoken the robot as a human and its controller.
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep>  DEATH STAR     By TOM PACE     Trapped by the most feared of space pirates     Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for     his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was     pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space.     Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.     For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.     That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon.     However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.     It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.     His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star.     The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.     Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.     The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart.     Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye.     He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing.     While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun.     If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl.  <doc-sep></s>","The story starts with Starrett (Star) Blade’s ship falling into one of the lakes on Alpha Centauri III. We then learns that Currently Star is trying to hunt Devil Garrett down, but his ship was hit by an energy-beam shot by Garrett, who is the top space pirate for years. After he fell, he hopes that Garrett himself will come here to look for him, but only one of Garrett’s men appears and he is killed by Star. He also notices a person with another gun right after he murders that man. He almost kills this person as well, but is able to stop in time due to his strong reflex skills. The reason that he stopped is because she is a girl. She has beautiful dark colored hair and eyes. But she does not stop trying to capture him. Before he can explain himself, he is knocked out. When Star has finally waken up, he is already in a lab chair with Garrett is right in front of him. To his surprise, Garrett calls him Garrett, instead of Star. The girl clearly believes Garrett that Star is actually Garrett. However, again, before he can explain his situation to the girl, he is knocked out. Right after he wakes up, he learns that he will be executed. Then, he starts thinking of the girl again, but he does not really understand why he is thinking of her. Before he can do anything, he is taken from his cell. Standing 5 yards away from the gun that Garrett is holding, he tries to find a way that he could escape. He is glad to see that it is a two way transmitter, but loses his hope again when he realizes that it is an old-style transmitter. Then as the visual image started to form, Garrett is ready to perform the execution. Star cunningly kicks the metal fork onto the vision transmitter, which diverts Garrett’s attention, and causes him to miss the shot. But because he is outnumbered by Garrett’s men, he is caught and knocked out again. After he wake up, the girl finds him and tells him that she is capable of reading lips. Even though the visual images has no sound, she knows what the Section Void Headquarters said, and that he is the actual Star. Garrett enters the cell after he finds out that the girl knows the real identity of him and Star. So he brings them to a room filled with machines. He imagines to have hundreds of those on Alpha III and he will be able to rule an entire world. Then suddenly the girl takes Garrett’s weapon and Star is able to kill him very quickly. And Commander Weddel, getting the signal that Star tried to send using the metal fork, gets here just on time to capture Garrett’s men. "
"<s>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.     He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.     Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.     The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true.     A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.     Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it.     The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere.     The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand....     The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett.     Which was right, in a way.     Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter.     Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.     Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.     It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl.     Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.     Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened.     But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head.     It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.  <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp.     Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ...      pirate     !     Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade.     The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate.     Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.     Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness.     An eternity seemed to pass.     Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.     Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.     That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett.     The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight.     He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett.     Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was.     Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you!     Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?     Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!     Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage.     You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou....     Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.  <doc-sep>  DEATH STAR     By TOM PACE     Trapped by the most feared of space pirates     Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for     his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was     pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space.     Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.     For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.     That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon.     However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.     It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.     His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star.     The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.     Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.     The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart.     Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye.     He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing.     While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun.     If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl.  <doc-sep></s>","Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate for many years, and Star is currently trying to hunt him down. We learn that Garrett has been secretly building machines on Alpha III which, if combine with Hinton ray screens, gives Garrett the power to rule the entire world. A month ago, Garrett captured Anne Hinton and started to pretend that he is Star. He was communicating with Anna’s father about new power processes. Then a month later, Star’s ship gets hit by the energy-beam. However, he survives after his ship fells into the lake, instead he is captured and Garrett wants to execute him. Luckily, he is able to divert Garret’s attention when he is shooting Star, leading him to miss it. Also, since the girl is able to read lips, she realizes that Garrett has been lying to her. She learns Garrett’s true identity as well as Star’s. In the end, as Garrett is showing them his great enterprise and explaining how he will be able to rule the world, he gets careless and Anna takes his weapon. Even though he tries to run, Star is quicker and has better reflexes. Without his weapons, Star easily had him killed."
"<s>  DEATH STAR     By TOM PACE     Trapped by the most feared of space pirates     Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for     his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was     pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space.     Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.     For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.     That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon.     However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.     It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.     His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star.     The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.     Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.     The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart.     Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye.     He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing.     While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun.     If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl.  <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  <doc-sep>III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place on Alpha Centauri III, a planet that has many stagnant lakes that are only a few hundred feet across, but a few thousand feet deep. After Star’s ship fells into one of the lakes, he is knocked out and is captured by the girl and Garrett’s people to their craft. He is sitting on a lab chair where he realizes that he is being called “Garrett” instead of Star. He is still super surprised, but then is knocked out again. He wakes up in some kind of cell and is told he will be executed. He is brought to a room to be executed streaming to the Section Void Headquarters with a stellar vision screen. After some distraction, Garrett misses the shot. But Star is knocked out again to be brought back to the cell again. After acknowledging that the girl knows his true identity, Garrett notices them and brought them to see his grand operation that will allow him to rule over the world. However, he dies before he was able to finish introducing the rest of the machineries. "
"<s>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp.     Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ...      pirate     !     Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade.     The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate.     Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.     Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness.     An eternity seemed to pass.     Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.     Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.     That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett.     The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight.     He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett.     Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was.     Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you!     Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?     Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!     Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage.     You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou....     Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.  <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.     He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.     Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.     The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true.     A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.     Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it.     The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere.     The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand....     The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett.     Which was right, in a way.     Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter.     Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.     Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.     It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl.     Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.     Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened.     But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head.     It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.  <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!     Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully.     Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction.     There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.     Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!     Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse.     His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found.     Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.     You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!     Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held.     Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.     Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.  <doc-sep></s>","Firstly, a month ago, Garrett pretends to be Star and successfully deceived the girl’s father and was communicating with him about his development on some power processes. And according to the girl, she was captured by Garrett and brought to the craft around a month ago. Note that no one knows what he is really hoping to accomplish by pretending to be Star. Secondly, for the past month, he has been using 3-dimensional images and detailed description of Star as Garrett to make the girl believe his made-up identity. This also finishes successfully and the girl was sure that Star was Garrett, Garret as Star. Thirdly, during the execution, Garrett uses the delay in voice from the visual images to make sure that the girl will not be able to hear anything that the Section Void Headquarters would say when they see Garrett murdering Star. But he lets her see the images so that when their faces are filled with surprises to see Star being captured, the visual images will lead the girl to believe that they are shocked because they see Garret. However, this part of the plan failed. The girl is able to read lips, thus from the visuals, she knows exactly what the headquarters are saying. Hence she learns the truth of Garrett and Star’s identity. She also learns that he has been lying to him and her father. "
"<s>  DEATH STAR     By TOM PACE     Trapped by the most feared of space pirates     Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for     his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was     pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space.     Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.     For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.     That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon.     However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.     It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.     His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star.     The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.     Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.     The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart.     Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye.     He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing.     While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun.     If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl.  <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.     From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances.     The law didn't leave a man much leeway.     But everybody knew that if you      really     wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone.     Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway.     Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou.  <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp.     Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ...      pirate     !     Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade.     The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate.     Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.     Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness.     An eternity seemed to pass.     Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.     Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.     That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett.     The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight.     He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett.     Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was.     Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you!     Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?     Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!     Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage.     You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou....     Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.  <doc-sep></s>","When Star’s ship is hit by the electric beam, he has an electron knife with him. And when he heard footsteps coming his way, he holds onto it firmly. When the man gets near the water and sees the ship sink, Star quickly kills him with the electron knife by stabbing right to his heart. He takes the man’s jet-gun with him as well. He is also going to use the jet-gun on the girl, but his great reflexes are able to stop him from doing so, however, she paralyzes him first. After he is knocked out and brought to the cell, he looks for his weapons, but they are all taken by Garrett’s men except one. At the place that execution is supposed to take place, Star kicks the metal fork towards the visual transmitter, which will send signals for help. When Garrett takes them to the machinery room, the girl takes the jet weapon from Garrett, Star uses a tiny jet to shoot Garret right before Garret shot him. While Star’s scalp gets injured, he is able to shoot right at Garret’s vitals with his quickness and alertness, thus making him die almost immediately."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   The Snare     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by WEISS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none!        I glanced at the path we had made across the      Mare Serenitatis     . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt.     Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity.     Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth.     We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface.     The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Ed, along with his wife Verana, and their friends Kane, Miller and Marie are out for a walk on the surface of the Moon. They live there, working in the lunar city. They come across a spherical object, about 2 miles in diameter. Miller, a mineralogist, declares that the metal must be at least a few thousand years old. A circular door opens, revealing a small room inside. Kane enters the room. The rest of the group decide to join Kane, but as Miller tries to cross the threshold, he is thrown back. The door shuts behind the group and they are trapped inside. The group try to intercom back to Miller, and then radio back to Lunar City, but all they get is static. The group realise that they are flying through outer space. An inner door opens to reveal a passageway. They arrive at a dead end at the end of the passageway. Just then, a door opens to the right of Kane, an invisible force pushing him into a separate room, and locking the entrance behind him. Marie, his wife is lifted up and placed into a separate chamber. Ed and Verana search the corridor, the remaining doors opening for them. The couple wander around the rooms for eating, sleeping, recreation, bathing and an observatory. A few minutes later, they are joined by Marie and Kane. The two relay how they were told that this ship belongs to an Alien race which arrived on Earth thousands of years ago, and wanted to study humans once they gained the ability of space flight. They mean no harm and want to take them to their planet to study them. They are met by the voice of a faceless artificial intelligence controlling the ship. It informs them there is no way to turn it's course around. The group search the rooms for tools for escape, but soon realise that there is nothing. Kane tries to think of a solution to their problem. Kane starts to drink a liquid like whiskey, which makes him intoxicated. Kane begins to beat himself up. The machine tells him to stop, and that if it arrives with a damaged crew, it's masters will be disappointed. The machine informs the crew that it has no way to physically interact with or restrain them. *blank* brings Kane to his bunker and goes back to his wife to go to sleep. They wake up later, all tied to chairs in the kitchen. Kane has knocked them out in their sleep and restrained them. Kane starts to choke Ed, asking the machine what will happen if the ship arrives to the alien world, and all the crew are dead. The machine would have failed its assignment. Kane proposes that if the machine takes them back to the Moon, then the computer will not have failed, and it might have the chance again to pick up a crew. The machine agrees and takes them on a course for the Moon. "
"<s>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.     Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked.     Whiskey!     My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained.     I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine.     We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles.     Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded.           Why?      Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care?     My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition.     Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then!     I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language.     It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.     After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.     I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons.     Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one!     I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be.     They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon.     The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking,      And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever     .     I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning.  <doc-sep>   The Snare     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by WEISS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none!        I glanced at the path we had made across the      Mare Serenitatis     . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt.     Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity.     Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth.     We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface.     The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before.  <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.      Do you know where we are?      he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs!     Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.     Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo!     Start at the beginning, I suggested.     He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it—      like rabbits in a snare!          And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed.     Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us.     How long will the trip take? I asked.     Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!     Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her.     Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—     Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped.     Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't      have to     dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods.     Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon!     It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins on the surface of the Moon. The group revels in its beauty and the clear, star filled sky. They soon enter into the alien spaceship. The opening chamber's walls are filled with drawings and instruments. There are Kaleidoscopic lights that flash on and off. A small door opens to reveal a narrow passageway. The passageway is lined with eight doors, with no way to open them. Kane and Marie are pulled by some invisible forces into the first two rooms. Ed and Verana first enter into the kitchen. It's a large room with shelves running along its walls, full of multicoloured containers and bottles. There is a table and four backless chairs in the centre, and the floor is a shiny green. There are drawings of a naked man and woman eating from the contents of the boxes. The second room is dedicated to recreation. There are numerous containers filled with alien games and books. There are more simple drawings to use as instructions to go along with them. They enter the sleeping quarters next, where the floors are squishy and the lights are ambient and relaxing. They go into a bathroom, with a large bath, alien toilets and soap. They finally enter an observatory. On one side is floor to ceiling see through, and the room is furnished with comfortable chairs. "
"<s>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.     Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked.     Whiskey!     My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained.     I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine.     We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles.     Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded.           Why?      Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care?     My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition.     Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then!     I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language.     It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.     After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.     I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons.     Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one!     I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be.     They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon.     The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking,      And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever     .     I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning.  <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.      Do you know where we are?      he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs!     Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.     Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo!     Start at the beginning, I suggested.     He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it—      like rabbits in a snare!          And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed.     Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us.     How long will the trip take? I asked.     Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!     Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her.     Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—     Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped.     Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't      have to     dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods.     Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon!     It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room.  <doc-sep>   The Snare     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by WEISS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none!        I glanced at the path we had made across the      Mare Serenitatis     . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt.     Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity.     Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth.     We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface.     The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before.  <doc-sep></s>","Ed and Kane go to the kitchen and start to sample random bottles and foods. Kane finds a brown bottle filled with a strong liquid. The artificial intelligence explains that it is a liquor intended to mimic something like what the alien race presumed would be created on Earth. He starts to drink it and soon becomes intoxicated. He starts to punch himself and then beats his head against the wall. His knuckles become bloody and he gets a bruise on his head. The computer asks him not to hurt himself, as its masters will be disappointed if they arrive in the alien world injured. The computer has no way to physically interfere with the crew. This hatches an idea in Kane's mind. If the computer arrives with a damaged or even dead crew, then the machine will have failed its assignment.  He threatens to kill the entire crew, which would mean that the machine would arrive on the planet empty handed. He offers the machine an alternative. If it drops them back on Mars, then it will not have really failed, because the only way to truly fail would be to arrive with a dead crew. Additionally, if the machine stayed on the Moon's surface, it might have an opportunity to pick up another crew in the future. This plan is all due to a whiskey-like substance. "
"<s>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.      Do you know where we are?      he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs!     Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.     Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo!     Start at the beginning, I suggested.     He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it—      like rabbits in a snare!          And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed.     Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us.     How long will the trip take? I asked.     Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!     Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her.     Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—     Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped.     Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't      have to     dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods.     Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon!     It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room.  <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.     The end of the line, he grunted.     As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly.     He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.     The door closed behind him.     Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry!     Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.     Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway.     Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock.     The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.     Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall.     I put my arms around her, held her close.     Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly.     For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon.     We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship.     My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality.  <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.     You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had.     But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way.     And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification.     Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn.     Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and      only     the human race.     I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself.     It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.     Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden.     Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.     We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you.     The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested.  <doc-sep></s>","Marie is the wife of Kane, the sharp, brash anti-hero of the story. She begins on the walk with the rest of the crew, ending up on the alien spaceship. When Kane is thrown into a separate room from the rest of the crew, Marie throws herself against the door and tries with all her strength to get it to open, until she herself is put in a separate room. The room is dark, and she is touched by a telepathic voice that tells her not to worry. They won't hurt her, and they only want to learn something about her. The voice seems to search through her memories, looking at her high school days. It also looked at human customs and their lives in general. The room must be filled with some sort of happiness gas, because she comes out of it to join the rest of the crew in an airy, relaxed mood that soon wears off. She then searches the ship for a way to break out with the rest of the group but finds nothing. She goes to sleep with Verana. She wakes up to Kane having tied them all up. When Kane is strangling Ed, she screams at him to stop. Eventually though, the computer lets them go home. "
"<s>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps.     We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly.     Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.     Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.     This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.     I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.     The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn.     Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood!     The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle.       Let's see how it tastes, I said.     I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers.     The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.     I tasted a small piece.     Chocolate! Just like chocolate!     Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.     Milk! she exclaimed.     Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her.  <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.      Do you know where we are?      he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs!     Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.     Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo!     Start at the beginning, I suggested.     He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it—      like rabbits in a snare!          And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed.     Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us.     How long will the trip take? I asked.     Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!     Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her.     Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—     Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped.     Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't      have to     dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods.     Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon!     It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room.  <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.     I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before.     I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair.     Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.     Awake, huh?     What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him.     Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me.     What's your plan? I asked.     He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution.     I grunted my disgust.     The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation.     So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.     The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right?     Right.     Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?     What remark?     It said, '      My     masters will be displeased with      me     if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?  <doc-sep></s>","Ed and Verana are husband and wife. They live together in Lunar City, on the Moon, and have for the past year. Together, they're friends with the rest of the group. After Marie climbs into the star ship, Ed asks Verana if she wants to go in. They act as a team, always doing everything together. They are left in the passageway alone after Kane and Marie are taken. Ed holds Verana's hand as they walk down the corridor, a sign of affection. They explore the ship together first, always working together, discovering the meaning of the instructive drawings and the purpose of the different rooms. They sleep together in the same pod. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Shano is a sickly old man in line to board the space liner Stardust to go home. There is a red signal announcement for the liner, and guests are given an option to receive a refund. Many guests leave after hearing the danger signal, but Shano sticks his ticket into the scanner and moves to get on the liner. Shano chooses to step in anyways despite the dangers, and the Stardust takes off into space again. Captain Menthlo informs him of the Uranian enemy fleets and the high possibility of running into danger with one of them. When the captain realizes Shano's role as a laborer, he makes him sign a waiver because of the possible danger his life will be when they shut off the ship and mechanical device to avoid the enemies. Once he exits to the next deck, he sees the same lieutenant from earlier speak to him again. The lieutenant's name is  Rourke, and he asks why Shano is so anxious to board the ship. Later, as Shano smokes in his cabin, he tries to remember the specific saying for people with nicked jaws. Later, the ship announces that it will now maintain dead silence mode to avoid the Uranian fleets. Shano leaves his room to follow one of the young ensign, who walks by with a blaster. He then realizes that he cannot go back to his room. However, he sees an indistinguishable figure enter the engine room and notices a grey box with switches. Not soon after, the ship enters an offensive attack mode because the Uranian fleets have noticed them. Shano suddenly remembers the rumors to watch out for a man with a nicked jaw because he sells out information to Uranus. He knows that nobody will believe him about a traitor on the ship, so he faces Rourke himself. Shano digs his cigarette into the other man's body and clings to his body. He then twists Rourke's neck with his hands and kills the traitor. The frantic yelling of the other members catches his attention again, and the Stardust informs everybody on board that the ship is midway to Venus. However, there is toxic gas in the engine room now, and nobody on board can withstand the fumes to fix the engines. Although Shano continues to smoke, he does go into the engine room through the emergency exit to fix the space liner. The other crew on the ship are confused by how the liner continues to fly towards Venus. They realize that Shano is working the valve rods in the engine room. Shano thinks about how the Uranian fleet will come into the area and expect to find the Starliner but only find nothing. The fact that this escape is because of him makes him laugh and cough more. "
"<s>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.     The ship's speaker rasped softly.       Emergency. Battle posts.          The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us.     The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet.     Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die.     This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.     Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension.     The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall.     Fire number seven.     He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.     This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the      Stardust     out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see.     He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.     The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.     Hold fire.     He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said.     Stand by.     Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands.     This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown....     It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty.     Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner      Stardust     .     Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.     He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.     He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously.     A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.     Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here?     Shano blinked.     Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?     Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid.        Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.        He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints.     Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.     He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing.  <doc-sep>  SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom.     Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to.     For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.       This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!       This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push,      had     built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie.     Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.  <doc-sep></s>","Rourke is the lieutenant with the nicked jaw who Shano first meets at the air lock. He initially refuses the ticket and reminds Shano that there is a Red signal placed on the Stardust. He tells Shano that the latter is heading towards his funeral but still ends up punching his ticket. Rourke is indirectly mentioned when Shano asks the captain about nicked jaws, a question to which the captain responds that it happens when somebody has cut himself shaving. Rourke is later revealed to be a traitor loyal to the Uranians and attempts to sabotage the ship so that the Uranian fleet can force the Stardust to surrender. He is a manipulative individual, capable of convincing most crew members that he is innocent and means no harm. He also pretends to act surprised that Shano is on board, knowing that he will betray them to the Uranians. Rourke is also a very sneaky person. When the ship turns off all mechanics to avoid detection, he uses the opportunity to sneak into the engine room and mess up the ship’s controls. He can remain mostly undetected, only seen by Shano as he hurries into the room. "
"<s>  SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.     The ship's speaker rasped softly.       Emergency. Battle posts.          The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us.     The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet.     Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die.     This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.     Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension.     The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall.     Fire number seven.     He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.     This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the      Stardust     out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see.     He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.     The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.     Hold fire.     He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said.     Stand by.     Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands.     This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown....     It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty.     Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner      Stardust     .     Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.     He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.     He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously.     A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.     Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here?     Shano blinked.     Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?     Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid.        Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.        He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints.     Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.     He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing.  <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship.           All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps.          Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.     Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked.     The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside.     Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.     Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.     He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped.     He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.     A bell clanged.     Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.     Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately.     Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.  <doc-sep></s>","Shano’s occupation is being a miner and laborer. His time mining on Pluto leaves his lungs permanently damaged, and he has a constant cough that never seems to go away. However, he has been to many other planets as well, including Mars and Uranus. Although Shano is only a lowly miner, his actions also reveal how courageous and righteous he is as a person. His decision to take the liner, despite the red signal, shows that he is willing to take risks to reach his goal. Later, when he remembers why Rourke cannot be trusted, he does not hesitate to take matters into his own hands to deal with the traitor. Shano’s bravery is also shown when he braves the toxic gas to save the liner. He knows that he can last for up to 12 hours at most and that he will most likely die on the trip home. However, this does not deter him if he can get the ship safely to Venus. While Shano’s occupation in the story is not regarded highly, his actions show that he should not be underestimated. "
"<s>  SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  <doc-sep>I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around.     Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast.     I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side.     I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off.     When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you.     That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said.     The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him.     No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use.     The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch.     But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket.     Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it.     He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time.     He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering.     The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that.     He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed.     Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom.     Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket.     Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton.     I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him.     He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal.     Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said.     I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me.     Horst made a disgusted sound.     Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over.     I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton.     I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on.     I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me.     I felt like a fool.     Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart.     Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk.     I said calmly, You big louse.     It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing.     Brains are no good if you don't use them.   <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a—     He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?     I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models.     Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences—     I was shaking my head. I want a      Super     Deluxe model, I told him.     He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward—     I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.     We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted.     The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory.     And that was all there was to it.  <doc-sep></s>","One of the main pieces of equipment used on the Stardust liner is a loudspeaker. The primary role of the speaker is to give out instructions to the crew on the ship and makes any important announcements. The men also use phosphorescent bulbs as a light source to navigate their surroundings when the liner goes into total shutdown. Crew members also carry around a blaster for protection, most likely if there is ever a need for self-defense. There is also usage of a ray gun to fight back against the Uranian fleets. To ensure survival, emergency oxygen pipes are used to maintain atmosphere. Shano also carries a pack of cigarettes that do not seem important but later become essential to the story."
"<s>  SIGNAL RED     By HENRY GUTH     They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a     suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him.     Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But     Shano already knew this was his last ride.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.     Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said.     Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad.     He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.     The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner      Stardust     —sank slowly down.     There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die.     As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs.     The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:           Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes.          Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.           Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes.          The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed.       Red signal.     In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk.     He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.     A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there.     Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.           Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus     , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.     He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back.     Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind.     The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man.     The loud-speaker blared.       Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking—          With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off.     Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them.     We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds.     She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool.     She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.       She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone.     Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think.     There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy.     Where was he?     Who was Swarts?     What was the purpose of the tests he was being given?     It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers.     It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass.     This might be somewhere in Africa....     He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing.     Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.     Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its      alter ego     of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend....     Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe.     Last night Venus hadn't been there.     Venus was a morning star just now....       Just now!       He realized the truth in that moment.  <doc-sep></s>","The very first setting of the story is the Q City Spaceport. Many space liners come in and out, making the space very busy. The spaceport also features freighter catapults, long runaways, cradles, and hangars. Inside, there are also ticket scanners and turnstiles that the passengers go through before boarding the ship.The second and primary setting is the Stardust space liner. The space liner has an air lock that closes when the ship begins to fly. There is a control room with buttons and seats for the pilot to sit in as well. Although Shano is the only passenger on board, there are many cabins for the passengers to use. The cabin that Shano stays in also has a bunk to sleep on. Other basic parts include numerous steel decks and companionways. Later, the ship is revealed to have an engine room too, where the most crucial mechanical parts of the ship are. These parts are all advanced technology, including a new cosmic drive, selector valves (Carrsteel rods), and tube chambers to keep the filaments operating. These parts are essential to operate the jets of the liner and keep them running smoothly. "
"<s>She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets....     Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon.     ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring.     Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs?     Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all.     Si said, Look, how about another drink?     Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr....       Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going.     Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about.     Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was.     She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that.     Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.    <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses.     Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke.     At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots.     I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed.     They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner.     They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal.     The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily.     Someone hailed them from the space ship.     We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors.     A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship.     A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued!     No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us.     Oh, came a disappointed chorus.     He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing.     Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good?     I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.     A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved.     He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.     With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen.  <doc-sep>   GALACTIC GHOST     By WALTER KUBILIUS     The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger     of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions.     He had seen the phantom—and lived.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the      MaryLou     were now black as meteor dust.     We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover.     Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use.     The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob.     To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore!     Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars.     Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again.     Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars.     Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could.     Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard.     I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling.     Saw what?     It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there!     In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit?     Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace.     The Ghost Ship!     Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium.     There's nothing there, he said firmly.     It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone.     For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the      Mary Lou     .  <doc-sep></s>","Cadet Marshall Farnsworth wakes up at night, frightened by the sound of rockets. He looks in the window and thinks about his upcoming trip to space, as a first man, reflecting upon the history of mankind and space interaction. The next morning he has a short but difficult talk with his anxious parents. Marsh's dad takes him to the Skyharbor, the young man feels uneasy. Then he goes through a check up at psychiatrist's and space surgeon's, revises the route, and takes a nap. Then his Colonel gives him a brief speech, and his cadet friends wish him luck. Thousands of spectators and reporters try to see Marsh on his way to the rocket. Various gadgets are put on Marsh, he rises to the platform, says warm goodbye to the Colonel, and puts the helmet on. Inside the ship Marsh is fastened and final tests take place before he is left alone with his nerves. The last five minutes are long, Marsh thinks about his planet and parents, and then the ship sets off. Minutes seem an eternity, the first phase is behind, and upon reaching the peak velocity the speed starts to drop back. The free-flight orbit is reached and Marsh hears General Forsythe's earthly and calming voice. All the indicators are good and Marsh gets excited to be the first one to leave the rocket and look at the globe from space. He takes all the precautions and the first glance downward makes him feel like the king of the universe. Suddenly, he feels like he is falling and makes a forbidden movement, which leads to him bouncing from and back to the rocket a couple times, when he has to try hard to stop. When he calms down after the fright, he starts describing what he sees. General orders Marsh to go back and he returns to his cabin. The hardest part begins, as the speed of the ship is high and needs to be reduced. When Marsh succeeds in doing so, the ship heads back to Earth. Marsh has to make a couple spirals and near the airport the braking fuel is gone. Eventually, he manages to exit and breathe the air of Earth and is attacked by the reporters, until he is left with only three men. "
"<s>    THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE     Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.”     He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip.   10    As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps.     Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come.     In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness.     The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached.     Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning.     He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen.   11    His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand.     The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating.     “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.”     “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—”     “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself.     “      Some     body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.”     “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!”   12    Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.”     “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth.     “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?”     “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured.      Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time.     Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes.     Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States.   13    Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting.     When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition.     “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.”     The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.”     Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight.   14    Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight.     He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations.     “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.”     Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness.   15    “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.”     “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically.     A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.”     “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!”     There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test.     “Good luck, Marsh,” he said.     Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added.     Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess.   16    When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship.     Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt.     At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars.     A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate.   17    Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding.     The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid.     “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.”     First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later.   18    Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport.      This was it.       As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.”     There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity.     Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably.     “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground.     A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece.   19    Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit.     Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse.     “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform.     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied.     “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords.     “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker.   20    It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again.     “X minus sixty seconds!”     Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency.     “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!”     There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor.     The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton.     He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour.     Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute.   21    Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes.     Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory.     There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple.     Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour.     “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it.   22    There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration.     The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth.     The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons.     “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?”     “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.”     It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled.     “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.”     It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air.   23    Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart.     “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general.     Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.”     Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous.     “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.”     When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation.   24    He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it.     Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all.   25    Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions.     “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.”     “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.”     Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general.     As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him.   26    He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode.     In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely.     “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun.     General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription.     His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic.   27    Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely.     “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.”     Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist.     Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest.   28    This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it.     He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed.     It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights.     Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed.     “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?”   29    The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix.     When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all.     A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet.   30    The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone.     “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.”     The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe.     He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain.     His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon.  <doc-sep>Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton.     We had traveled this far by      ganet     , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy      jagua     canoes.     It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City.     We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship.     Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control.     Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel?     Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything.     And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins.     From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning:     Stand still!     The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft.        Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed.        I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me.     In heaven's name, what was it?     Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose.     Then that would mean...?     That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest.  <doc-sep>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.     And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive.     But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.     Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later.     You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages.     Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I      couldn't     get a post.     Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.     That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone.     Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to      her     —in a moment.     I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.     But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.  <doc-sep></s>","During his last night on Earth, Marsh appears to be tense and scared, blaming himself for not being as strong as he wishes to be. He also feels the anxiety of his parents and is sad to see them like that. All the day before the trip, Marsh looks at everything around as if it is the last time he sees it. He feels unprepared and uneasy about parting. At the same time, he is excited, and his pulse goes up, which makes him feel unworthy of the honor. Then Marsh eases a little and even takes a nap. The atmosphere of goodbyes with his team is warm and full of good memories. When Marsh is left alone in the cabin, he becomes scared and thinks about the spectators and his parents, wondering if he sees his home ever again The countdown adds to his anxiety and the last seconds before departure seem an eternity. Marsh tries to concentrate and distract himself from the thoughts. The voice of the general brings ease and seeing how well things go, Marsh gets excited. He feels proud and extremely impressed with the view, forgetting about caution. Suddenly he is afraid to fall and makes a wrong move, which scares him a lot. Calming down after that, Marsh is able to manage himself and complete the mission. When he gets back to Earth he is full of disbelief that he made it, and he is extremely happy to smell the air of home. "
"<s>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too.     Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out.     Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports.     As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit.     The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote.     ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth....     Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face.     ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy.  <doc-sep>O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here!     You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere.     They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get.     You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities?     That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you!     You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money.     A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel.     When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control?     What control?     Your fusion control that got itself two points low!     Oh, that little thing.     Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner.     Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully.     Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower!     O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite!     You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control!     Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking.     With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor.     Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they?     Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters.     Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything.     Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope.  <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  <doc-sep></s>","Marsh, the only person who is to fly, is excited and scared at the same time. He can not believe he is to be the first to exit in space, but he thinks himself not brave and worthy enough, and is afraid to fail everyone. He feels the burden of responsibility for being chosen, which is increased by his duty before his parents to come back and the attention of the huge amount of spectators. Marsh's parents are extremely anxious. The mom struggles to understand why such a young boy is sent, the dad tries to joke and calm down the mom, but they are both afraid Marsh won't come back. The spectators and journalists are excited and interested. The whole team working on the project is also excited and anxious, they try to support Marsh. The Colonel is worried for Marsh, all of them take caution, check everything, and cheer Marsh up. They work on detecting every data, controlling every detail. The whole planet watches closely, while Marsh is the only one to really feel like the king of the universe. "
"<s>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  <doc-sep>   IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  <doc-sep></s>","The night before the flight Marsh is in his father's temporary apartment with the view of distant Skyharbor. Next morning he leaves the house in his dad's car and gets to the airport. There he visits the doctors and goes to take a nap. Then he enters a room where he says goodbye to his friends. Then he goes to put on all the devices and takes an elevator to the platform. From there he enters the cabin of his spaceship and sets off to space. He moves through the Hemisphere to the Earth orbit. There he stops and exits, finding himself in space. He looks at the globe from there. Marsh heads back then, making circles around the United States and gets back to Sky Harbor. There he exits the ship and goes out."
"<s>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall.     I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.     I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?     Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation.     Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.     I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially.     I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together.   <doc-sep>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited.     George Prime didn't come out.     It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover.     Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done.     I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him.     But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced.     What check? I asked.     The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth.     The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly.     Oh, no, sir. That is, you      did     until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account.     He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them.     What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.     That's been closed out for two weeks.     I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through.     I came up with a horrible thought.     Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.     I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not      Mrs.     Faircloth.      You     bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda.     When? I choked out.     Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock—     I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control—      way     out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon—     Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime.       For how long?    <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined.     While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.     Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve.     Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere?     Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge.     There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal.     Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said.     Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?     Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded.     But too late.     There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal.     If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space.     As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.     I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention.     This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable.     I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.     If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.  <doc-sep></s>","Being the first man to go to space is a task of extreme responsibility. For years, the flight was worked through to make it as safe and well-organized as possible. Due to the need to choose only one man, long training and checkouts took place, and Marsh was decided to be the best. His success is the reason his friends are not able to go and their years of training were in vain. The generals and other higher standing participants trained and chose Marsh, so he has to meet their expectations. The whole globe is watching him with interest and attention, which is an additional pressure. He has to complete the mission successfully, because he was chosen and he can’t fail, he needs to be brave, calm and concentrated. Moreover, he is responsible before his parents to come back, not to make them lose their only son. Detailed instructions were given to him and failing to follow them means proving not good enough. This flight was prepared for too long, and if he fails, he moves the exploration years back. Understanding all of that, Marsh tries to calm him down every time and reminds himself of what has to be done. He does everything with caution, and when he loses control in space, he rapidly recovers and reminds himself to be careful. Under the burden of this responsibility, Marsh doesn’t let himself to get nervous. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>   Yesterday House     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty       years is shocking enough for anyone with a       belief in ghosts—worse for one with none!        I     The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the      AnnieO.     its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand.     He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out.     He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the      Annie O.     hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth.     The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out.  <doc-sep></s>","Jack Barry is a biology student, who sets sail on his boat Annie O. He has sailed out to the furthest island off the coast of Maine. He gets to the shore and docks his boat. He sets out to explore the island. Once he reaches the summit, he finds that there is another island, connected by a thin line of rocks to the one he is on. He climbs down the slope, onto the rocks and crosses to the other side. He arrives at a gate, which he manages to overcome. Beyond the fence is a cottage, with a lawn. The whole scene is old fashioned and slightly eerie. An elderly woman comes out of the house, gets in an old car and drives away. A pretty girl, dressed like a flapper comes out. Jack walks over to her. She asks if he is the man who sends her little boxes. She tells him she lives here with her aunts. They talk for a while, Jack telling her about his professor  Martin Kesserich, whom he's staying with. The girl tells Jack her name is Mary Alice Pope. She says she's never been to the mainland, and that she's never met anyone her own age, let alone a man. She explains to him that every morning she receives a little box with a gift inside, and a note, signed by Your Lover. She tells him she was born in the middle of the first world war, and that the year is 1933. Jack tries to convince her that it is in fact 1951. She doesn't believe him. They hear her aunt's car returning, so Jack leaves, telling her he'll be back tomorrow. He makes his way back to the Annie O. Once at sea, he sees the chug boat of one of Mary Alice's aunts, who points what looks like a rifle at him, before turning away to go back to the island. When Jack returns to his professor's home, he asks Mrs Kesserich about Mary Alice. She informs Jack that Mary Alice was the love of her husband's life, who died in 1933. Martin arrives home, and begins a hypothetical discussion with Jack about the possibility of recreating a human being. If you could take the same DNA as the original, and put the copy in the same circumstances as the one before, they would be the same. He tells Jack that he won't be here the following day. Jack wakes up the next morning and sets off for the little island. He brings with him newspapers from the present day to try and convince Mary Alice the truth, that it is in fact 1951, and not 1933. He tells her that she has been a victim of a conspiracy to make her believe it is a different year. He asks her to come back to the mainland with her. She then tells him that she can't, as the man who sends her the boxes is coming tonight. "
"<s>III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  <doc-sep>Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases.     He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time—     Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure.     Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care!     O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O!     It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her.     All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for?     You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover!     Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose.     What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it.     The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame.     Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then.     But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization.     And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact.     Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by.     Evening.  <doc-sep>June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zippedoff her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in awall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall....     I've got a good figure, she said thoughtfully.     Max turned at the door. Why this sudden interest in your looks? heasked suspiciously. Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finallyget something to eat?     Wait a minute. She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully,using a combination from the ship's directory. How're you doing, Pat?     The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startledchuckle. Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to gojump in the lake?     Are you hungry?     No food since yesterday.     We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out, she told Pat andhung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment whichmade shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast.     They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealinghamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each ofPat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one ofantihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense systemwould treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless humanblood cells, and fight back against them violently.     One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive,so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the humancells, and thus succumb more rapidly.     How ya doing, George? Max asked.     Routine, George Barton grunted absently.     On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed aviewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on thehorizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew fartheraway, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear greenwhere there were fields.     Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had beenthere a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. It looks likeWinnipeg, she told them as they paused. When are you doctors going tolet us out of this blithering barberpole? Look, she pointed. See thatpatch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding throughit? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out?  <doc-sep></s>","One day, Jack Barry goes to explore the little islands off the coast of Maine.  He docks his boat on the first island inside the cove, looking back through its high walls at thousands of tiny islands, dotting the blue sea, and the thin line that is Maine in the distance. Another island is revealed. It is connected to the first by a spine of rocks. At the near side of the second island is a short slope, covered in grass and trees. Beyond the trees is a huge chicken wire fence, topped with barbed wire. Beside the fence is an oak tree, with a low hanging branch. Beyond the fence is a quaint little cottage. There is a neatly mowed lawn in front of it, with a gravel driveway reaching out into the distance. There is another house on the summit of the island, a treehouse, and a chug boat moored in the bay. Jack then returns to the stark, square home of the Kesseriches. There is a solemn, cold air to the place, one that is reflected in Mrs Kesserich. The story then flashes back to the setting in which Mary Alice and Martin Kesserich lived. It is a nondescript place, but one that is open enough to ride horses in, hills sloping down onto train tracks. "
"<s>II     The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior.     In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature.     Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard.       He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope?     The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise.     It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier.     That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933.     The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness.     Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it.     Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa.     You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem.     Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe.     Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred.     Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred.  <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this.     She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy—     Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization?     Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home.     Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant.     She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing.     Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare.     Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms.     A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned.     The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy.     Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife.     The great biologist had come home.  <doc-sep>III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  <doc-sep></s>","Martin Kesserich is a biologist and professor. He lives in a coastal town in Main with his wife. He has taken in Jack Barry, to live with and study under him. He moved to America long ago from Hungary with his two sisters, Hani and Hilda. In America, he meets Mary Alice Pope, a young beautiful, intelligent girl whom he falls in love with. They plan a life together. He will build a house for them to live in and raise a family in. They will travel the world together, he will teach her Hungarian. They will marry. Soon before the day they planned to be their wedding day, Martin is called away to business. He takes the train home after the journey. On his way back, Mary Alice rides on horseback with his two sisters to greet him at the station. But, as Mary Alice sits on her horse on top of a slope overlooking the train tracks, the horse becomes spooked, and gallops down to the rail. She is thrown onto the railway line. Martin sees this, and immediately throws himself out of the moving train to save her. But it's too late. Before he can reach her, she is crushed by the train. He sits, heartbroken, with her body in his hands. Years later, he marries Mrs Kesserich, whom he doesn't seem to have any affection towards, mainly ignoring each other. Treating each other with coldness and a lack of love. "
"<s>II     The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior.     In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature.     Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard.       He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope?     The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise.     It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier.     That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933.     The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness.     Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it.     Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa.     You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem.     Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe.     Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred.     Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred.  <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this.     She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy—     Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization?     Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home.     Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant.     She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing.     Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare.     Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms.     A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned.     The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy.     Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife.     The great biologist had come home.  <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry.     She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it.     He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course?     She shook her head.     Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich.     The girl looked puzzled.     Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name.     Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time.     You're pretty shy, aren't you?     How would I know?     The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper.     Will you sit down? she asked him gravely.     The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over.     Why?     So you'll be able to go back to the mainland.     But I never go to the mainland.     You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves.     Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem.     But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age!     You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies.     You're joking!     No, it's true.     But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary?  <doc-sep></s>","Kesserich devises an elaborate, maniacal scheme to cope with the loss of his beloved fiance Mary Alice Pope. He takes his dead loves ova, and through some kind of unknown science, creates a clone of Mary Alice. He brings the baby to a hidden island, in a cove with high rock walls to keep any intruders out. He creates a setting on the island to seem as if it is 1916. He builds an english cottage with a neat lawn and a eight foot high fence surrounding it to keep unwanted visitors out, and his fiancee's copy in. He employs his two sisters, who are forever devoted to him to raise the child, as if it were this time period which he has fabricated. He sends the girl notes every day, since she was first born, along with gifts like flowers. The notes are always signed with Your Lover. This is all in an attempt to create an exact replica of Mary Alice, in mind, body, and spirit at the very moment he lost her. He has put her in a place made to mimic england, which she grew up in, and the time period as well. By the end of the story, the new Mary Alice is the exact age when the original died. It is Kesserich's plan to finally meet this girl, who has been closed off completely from the outside world."
"<s>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged.     Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked.     I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933.     You're trying to joke, Jack told her.     No, I'm not.     But it's 1953.     Now it's you who are joking.     But the paper's yellow.     The paper's always yellow.     He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or—     Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying.     But—     No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here.     I'm really not joking, he said after a moment.     She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it!     She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound.     At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint      chug     of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons.     Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues....     Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker.     The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere.     I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here.     All right they won't like it.     Her agitation grew. No, you must go.     I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying.     Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock.     Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still.     You must go before they see you.     Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped....  <doc-sep>Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful.     Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures.     Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us.     Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided.     They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined.     The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.     My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the      things     of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own.     Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen.     In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur.  <doc-sep>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened.     That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone.     You left the keys in it?     Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?     The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him.     Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow.     Yes, sir. In here.     Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires?     Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup.     Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets?     Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman.     Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of      kids     had stolen the car.     It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup.     Then why did they do      that     ?     Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen?     Of course not!     Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that?     I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that.     Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully....     That was on Wednesday.     The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the      Daily News     brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.     The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:     Dear Mr. Editor:     The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper.      II     The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk.     It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.     Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.     As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.     Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep?     At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder.     Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards.  <doc-sep></s>","The newspapers are such an important part of the story because they are an indicator as to the different characters' understanding of the time period. On the island, Mary Alice is surrounded by many items and artefacts to gaslight her into thinking that the year is 1933. These include the old fashioned car and radio, which plays news from the past. The one main item used to convince her are the newspapers. Hani and Hilda, who refer to themselves as her aunts, give her a new newspaper every day with the date on it. It is a way for her to keep track of the passing time, albeit incorrect. When Jack Barry sees these newspapers and exclaims that they are wrong, Mary Alice is understandably shocked, and doesn't believe him. She doesn't know that newspapers aren't supposed to be yellow, because to her, newspapers have always been yellow. They are also very important to her because even though they are false, they are her only connection to what the outside world is like, apart from the radio, film and books. They are the real time news of what is happening in the world. At the end of the story, Jack Barry takes some current newspapers, in the hopes that he can convince her that the ones she possesses are decades old, and that she is, in fact, living in 1951. She doesn't believe him at first, pointing out that the papers he has could be fake, but when he states that only old papers are yellow, it seems that she begins to believe him. "
"<s>   Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds.     She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool.     She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.       She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone.     Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think.     There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy.     Where was he?     Who was Swarts?     What was the purpose of the tests he was being given?     It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers.     It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass.     This might be somewhere in Africa....     He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing.     Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.     Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its      alter ego     of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend....     Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe.     Last night Venus hadn't been there.     Venus was a morning star just now....       Just now!       He realized the truth in that moment.  <doc-sep></s>","From his shelf Michael watches a juice advertisement. Then a nearby passenger starts a conversation regarding Michael's belonging to a Brotherhood. Michael remembers how the Father Superior proposed the idea for him to live in the outside world to answer the question about reasons for the Brotherhood's resignation from it. The young man makes one mistake after another, violating the laws of the Universe during the short conversation with his respectable companion. The least warns the youth against those mistakes and lets him stick close for a while, then the two listen to the Sirians singing. Suddenly, it turns out that Zosma has joined the United Universe and its rule to always cover the head becomes Universal starting that second. Upon the arrival to Portyork, Michael and his companion cautiously head to eat, and the man keeps enlightening the newcomer. Then they take a ride through the city with Carpenter constantly explaining Michael his new mistakes. During a short following walk, Michael says history and unintentionally deeply offends a man, who is urged by Carpenter not to report. Then Michael asks for a shower, and they take a taxi to a public lavatory. Advideos keep appearing and annoying the two everywhere. Then Carpenter wants to find a temporary family for Michael to make his stay legal, but the least mentions the desire to create his own permanent family and marry the girl he likes. This statement is the turning point, Carpenter is shocked with the youth's ignorance about marriage being outlawed. Michael in turn is frustrated with the idea of having to share his girl and decides to return to the Brotherhood. Carpenter is even more shocked by the news of both sexes living there together and belonging to one another, so he considers Michael simply unfit for the civilized and comfortable life. Michael, on the contrary, already dreams of coming back home. He takes the same bus and then the same taxi to his Brotherhood. "
"<s>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars.     Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add      thought     to the statute).     Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?     The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?     Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.  <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words.     I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage.     This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe....     In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships.           Your guess happens to be the precise truth.          At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.     She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth.     Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored.     Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.     But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.     Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers.     Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few.     Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born.  <doc-sep>   Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  <doc-sep></s>","The United Universe's laws are a combination of laws of every planet involved. Earth has introduced the tabu regarding offending motherhood as it is sacred. Electra has prohibited appearing in public bare handed, because its people have eight fingers on each hand and feel different from others. Yellow is forbidden to wear as it represents death on Saturn. Zosma has just joined the United Universe and introduced the necessity to cover the heads in public, which is immodest on that planet. Theemimians do not eat in public, and so do all other beings in the United Universe. Fomalhautians do not have feet and, therefore, do not walk. So, it's prohibited to walk more than two hundred yards. Zaniahansn are like bees and go everywhere with their families, therefore, one can not travel alone in the universe. Nekkarians say and imply only what is true. Meropians do not have history and this word is offending for them, and forbidden, therefore. On Talitha marriage is slavery, and so is it on other planets. "
"<s>   Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds.     She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool.     She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.       She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone.     Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think.     There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy.     Where was he?     Who was Swarts?     What was the purpose of the tests he was being given?     It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers.     It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass.     This might be somewhere in Africa....     He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing.     Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.     Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its      alter ego     of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend....     Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe.     Last night Venus hadn't been there.     Venus was a morning star just now....       Just now!       He realized the truth in that moment.  <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  <doc-sep></s>","The narration begins on a bus shelf where the main character lies. Then he arrives at Portyork, a huge spaceport on Earth, where Michael and Mr. Carpenter head to the nearest feeding station following the map. There Michael alone is admitted into a tiny room to eat. When he finishes, the two take a trip to the Old Town by taxi. In the cab they crossed Portyork, looking at the cosmopolitan architecture and people. They exit the taxi at Times Square which is indeed in the shape of a square and is decorated for the New Year in green and red though it's July. The two walk a little to Broadway and then. take another can to a public lavatory. There, in the elevator, Michael sees many foreigners again. When they leave the lavatory, the two have an argument and go different ways. In the next scene Michaels appears on a shelf on his way back to Angeles, to the Lodge and the Brotherhood. Upon arrival, he takes the same taxi back home. "
"<s>   Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds.     She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool.     She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.       She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone.     Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think.     There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy.     Where was he?     Who was Swarts?     What was the purpose of the tests he was being given?     It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers.     It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass.     This might be somewhere in Africa....     He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing.     Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.     Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its      alter ego     of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend....     Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe.     Last night Venus hadn't been there.     Venus was a morning star just now....       Just now!       He realized the truth in that moment.  <doc-sep>He woke in the morning with someone gently shaking his shoulder. Herolled over and looked up at the girl who had brought him his meal theevening before. There was a tray on the table and he sniffed the smellof bacon. The girl smiled at him. She was dressed as before, exceptthat she had discarded the white cloak.     As he swung his legs to the floor, she started toward the door,carrying the tray with the dirty dishes from yesterday. He stopped herwith the word, Miss!     She turned, and he thought there was something eager in her face.     Miss, do you speak my language?     Yes, hesitantly. She lingered too long on the hiss of the lastconsonant.     Miss, he asked, watching her face intently, what year is this?     Startlingly, she laughed, a mellow peal of mirth that had nothingforced about it. She turned toward the door again and said over hershoulder, You will have to ask Swarts about that. I cannot tell you.     Wait! You mean you don't know?     She shook her head. I cannot tell you.     All right; we'll let it go at that.     She grinned at him again as the door slid shut.  <doc-sep></s>","The final passages reflect how Michael's attitude towards the outside world has changed. The Sirians' song, which sparked curiosity in him in the beginning of the story, annoys him now and makes him miss home even more. The advideo is annoying as well, as those are all over the universe and can't be turned off. Those are the annoying features of the world about which nothing can be done, and for Michael one day was enough to get tired of them. Michael has fulfilled the purpose of his visit to Earth, he understands now why the Brotherhood is so isolated from the world and he likes it. He starts missing home and his girl in one day on Earth and gladly decides to return. The Earth experience makes him sure in how he wants to live in the future - in the Brotherhood, without the constant fear of mistakes and restrictions on every step, married to his girl. The civilization seems awful to the youth, but it is spreading, as the taxi driver says. Nevertheless, Michael doesn't care about it, he feels safe in Brotherhood, and it is definitely the right place for him."
"<s>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station.     Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky.     They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean?     Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious?     The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact.     Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials.     Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and....           Married!      Carpenter was now completely shocked. You      mustn't     usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you?     Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would.     Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you.     Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?     Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis.     Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood.     There was a short cold silence.     You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you      promise     I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury.     You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter.     Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are.     Much better, Michael agreed.     By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood?     Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society.     On Talitha— Carpenter began.     I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic.  <doc-sep>   Tea Tray in the Sky     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Visiting a society is tougher than being born       into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!        The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair.     Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé.     A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog.     I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs.     Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.     Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother.     Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale?     Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered.     The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother.     Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki.     No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life.     Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover.     An Earth tabu?     Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that.  <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba.       Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know.     The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?     Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not.     And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury.     How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed.     Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability.     My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards.     Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands....     Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them?     Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?     Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me?     The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here.     But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales.     Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?     Of course not, but—     Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?     Certainly not, but—     Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word—      intolerance     ?     No, no,      no     ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away.  <doc-sep></s>","Mr. Carpenter is the first acquaintance Michael makes on his trip into the world. They are companions on the bus to Portyork. At first, Michael is unwilling to talk and Carpenter is curious to know about the reasons for the former to join a Brotherhood. Soon, Carpenter realizes that Michael is unfamiliar with the ways of this world and decides to take charge and show the youth around. Carpenter forgives Michael's every mistake and explains it, warning the youth to become silent in case of danger. Carpenter is more forgiving and kind than many other citizens, which is the reason for him taking charge of Michael. The man shows the newcomer around the city and prevents him from getting in trouble. Carpenter even defends Michael before an offended Meropian, who wants to report to the police. Things change when Michael begins an argument with Carpenter regarding marriage, which has been outlawed. Michael's desire to possess his girl alone contradicts the norms of the world and the youth's obstinance in this desire shock Carpenter completely. When he learns that in the Brotherhood both sexes are represented and marriage, which equals slavery to him, exists, Carpenter becomes sure that Michael can't adapt to the civilized world. After that, each goes his way."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep>  The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  <doc-sep></s>","Eric North, a man from Earth, is lying on his stomach and thinking whether he should go down to the bottom of the canal before him, where the beauty of the fabled city of Mars calls the youth. After a short resistance, Eric surrenders to the call of the city, rushes towards it and starts beating the gate to get in. Upon hearing Eric's name, the sentinel screams it out loud and strikes the man with hatred, mentioning some kind of a legend. A crowd full of hatred gathers, but Eric manages to escape from the city. Nevertheless, it calls again and he starts pleading at the gates to be let back, even though he knows it's insane. Shortly after, Eric realizes, with the help of taking off his hat, that the beauty is an illusion and walks away on a safe distance. He figures out putting the hat on and off confuses the machine and the illusion disappears. He decides to destroy the city without exploring further not to put himself and his brother in danger. Nevertheless, turns out that Garve, the brother, followed his curiosity and went to the city. When the two meet, Garve takes off Eric's head and mentions the legend about Eric which everyone in the city believes. While heading to the city center, the two are followed and Garve asks his brother not to use the gun, which results in Eric's capture. Eric bluffs, threatening people with the prophecy, but they decide to kill him. A respected young woman, Nolette, suddenly saves him and brings before the council. There Eric learns the story of the city, which is a small colony of those who chose to remain on Mars during the drought and a machine was created there to translate thought into reality. Now people become lustful, lose their will to learn and many of those banished have lost their minds. That's why the city has to be destroyed and Eric is the instrument. Then Eric is led to his quarters in the building of the Elders, and his brother stays in the city as well, though in another place."
"<s>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City?     Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.     Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city?     Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things.     Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette.     Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.     This whole city is a machine! Eric asked.     Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality.     Eric stared. The idea was staggering.     This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.     Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely.     Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City?     Yes. The time has come.     But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.     Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here.     Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city.     We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come.     Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?     For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return.     Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now?     Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire.     My brother, Garve. What about him?     He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters?  <doc-sep>  The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.     He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.     The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.     Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city.     Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you?     Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.     Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy?     Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.     Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders?     We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back.     After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run!     They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.     Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.     Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street.     For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one.     Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun.     There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it.     There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious.     He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy?     There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout.  <doc-sep></s>","Eric sees the citizens in the most beautiful way and is willing to join them. They, on the contrary, meet him with hatred as they hear his name. The citizens surround and try to attack Eric, they are superstitious and believe him to be the destroyer of the city from the legends. The Elders from the Council send one of them to save Eric. They also believe him to be part of the legend, but they know more about the city and the machine. They think that it's time for the city to be destroyed as it has changed, the machine doesn't do good anymore. Nolette, the daughter of the city, also believes Eric to be the legend and stops the crowd with the use of her authority from killing him. Eric is overwhelmed and he obeys the council, listening with curiosity. He also feels happiness near the girl. "
"<s>  The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City?     Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.     Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city?     Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things.     Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette.     Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.     This whole city is a machine! Eric asked.     Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality.     Eric stared. The idea was staggering.     This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.     Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely.     Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City?     Yes. The time has come.     But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.     Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here.     Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city.     We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come.     Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?     For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return.     Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now?     Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire.     My brother, Garve. What about him?     He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters?  <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.     The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe.     The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city.     He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.     And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.     He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity.     And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate.     He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again.     He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all.     He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions.     And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted.     The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.     He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been.     Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.     The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.     He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?     The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled:     Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal.     Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.     Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal.  <doc-sep></s>","The city is located on Mars. It was created a long time ago when Mars was flourishing. When most Martians left the planet because of the drought, a small colony remained in this place. Back then a machine, which is the whole city, was created to protect this small group. The machine translates thought into reality. It was used for the people in the city to receive all the necessary for life. At first, Eric considered it an illusion. The city captures thoughts with the use of a device and Eric's hat was an obstacle. Putting it on and off confused the machine and Eric was able to see the real ugliness of the city. When one gets into the radius of the machine, he is also called by it and can not refuse the city's beauty. When one doesn't look at the beautiful city, a voice still calls him. Many try to make their lustful desires real, they are banished for that and go mad. That's why the machine is not doing only good things anymore and should be destroyed in accordance with the prophecy. There is the council in the center of the city, whose Eldest know all about the origin of the machine. The members of the council, such as the daughter of the city, are respected by all the citizens. "
"<s>  The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  <doc-sep>   IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  <doc-sep>She shook her head. There are no more Afrikanders.     Rebellion?     No. Intermarriage. Racial blending. There was a psychology of guiltbehind it. So huge a crime eventually required a proportionateexpiation. Afrikaans is still the world language, but there is only onerace now. No more masters or slaves.     They were both silent for a moment, and then she sighed. Let us nottalk about them any more.     Robot factories and farms, Maitland mused. What else? What means oftransportation? Do you have interstellar flight yet?     Inter-what?     Have men visited the stars?     She shook her head, bewildered.     I always thought that would be a tough problem to crack, he agreed.But tell me about what men are doing in the Solar System. How is lifeon Mars and Venus, and how long does it take to get to those places?     He waited, expectantly silent, but she only looked puzzled. I don'tunderstand. Mars? What are Mars?     After several seconds, Maitland swallowed. Something seemed to be thematter with his throat, making it difficult for him to speak. Surelyyou have space travel?     She frowned and shook her head. What does that mean—space travel?     He was gripping the edge of the bed now, glaring at her. Acivilization that could discover time travel and build robot factorieswouldn't find it hard to send a ship to Mars!     A      ship     ? Oh, you mean something like a      vliegvlotter     . Why, no, Idon't suppose it would be hard. But why would anyone want to do athing like that?     He was on his feet towering over her, fists clenched. She raised herarms as if to shield her face if he should hit her. Let's get thisperfectly clear, he said, more harshly than he realized. So far asyou know, no one has ever visited the planets, and no one wants to. Isthat right?     She nodded apprehensively. I have never heard of it being done.     He sank down on the bed and put his face in his hands. After a while helooked up and said bitterly, You're looking at a man who would givehis life to get to Mars. I thought I would in my time. I was positive Iwould when I knew I was in your time. And now I know I never will.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins in in the desert on Mars, on the edge of a canal. In the bottom of the canal there is a fabulous city with the spires and minarets. Following the main character, the setting moves closer to the city, all the way through red dust everywhere around. The city is surrounded with a high wall and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. Inside the gate there is a sentinel with a sword and a crowd surrounds the character soon. He then escapes to the desert with its dust again and suddenly sees the city in an ugly way, the whole setting becomes disgusting and sordid. It keeps changing from beautiful to ugliness then while Eric goes away up the rocky sides of the canal to the desert. From there he moves to the ship. The ship is familiar to the character, though it's unlocked and empty. Eric returns to the city and starts going around the wall. Together with his brother he enters the city and heads to its center, the city seems beautiful and ugly at the same time while the helmet is still on Eric. Without it the city is more beautiful than ever. He follows his brother down a street of blue fur, then they ran from persecutors and Eric hid in a crevice between two buildings. from there some people captured Eric and moved to the center of the street.Then, Eric is saved by a girl and escapes on a horse. The setting moves to the door of the house of the Council and Eric enters. He goes into a large conference room through the hallway. There is a great T-table with six people sitting. "
"<s>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city.     The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe.     The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city.     He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.     And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.     He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity.     And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate.     He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again.     He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all.     He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions.     And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted.     The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.     He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been.     Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.     The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.     He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?     The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled:     Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal.     Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.     Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal.  <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.     He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.     The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.     Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city.     Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you?     Yes. The Legend said you'd be back.     Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy?     Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze.     Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders?     We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back.     After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run!     They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.     Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.     Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street.     For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one.     Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun.     There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it.     There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious.     He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy?     There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout.  <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City?     Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.     Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city?     Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things.     Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette.     Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.     This whole city is a machine! Eric asked.     Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality.     Eric stared. The idea was staggering.     This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.     Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely.     Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City?     Yes. The time has come.     But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.     Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here.     Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city.     We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come.     Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?     For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return.     Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now?     Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire.     My brother, Garve. What about him?     He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters?  <doc-sep></s>","Eric is determined to destroy the city without exploring it, no matter how tempting it is. But Garve's note forces the eldest brother to follow and help his brother out. The whole course of events changes and Eric has to return to the city, which he left with such an effort. This leads to Eric being endangered, captured and almost killed. From another point, it leads to Eric learning more about the city and they legend. If he destroyed the city as he wanted to, he would fulfill the prophecy without knowing. He would have considered the whole city an illusion without knowing it was a machine initially created for a good purpose. His return to the city also leads to his encounter with the beautiful girl, whose presence makes Eric happy. "
"<s>She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short.     A second later, as I came along, I saw why.     There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.     I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me.     Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us.     I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare.      III     I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.     I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning.     In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard.     There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.     And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere....     Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went:   Wherever I go,    I   go too, And spoil everything.    That was it. The story of mankind.     I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time.     Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious.           You have taken the first step     , she said.       You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer....       <doc-sep>He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal.     I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and      now     ....     Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are—     Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely.     He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back.     He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him.     It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk.   <doc-sep>Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night.     And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear.     They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I      told     Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and—     Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over.     But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison.     The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below.     They were ready for the breakout.     But there wasn't any breakout.     The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting.     The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls.     North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets.     The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it!     He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared.      No mixing.     Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin?     But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown.     But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome.  <doc-sep></s>","There is a gravely sick girl on a spaceship near Mars and the crew argues what to do. Roberds decides to pilot the ship to Earth breaking the command due to an emergency. Rat argues with him and wants to pilot the ship himself, which leads to him being forced to leave. Roberds and Peterson then explain to nurse Gray, who is looking after the sick girl, that Rat left his post once and therefore didn't warn anyone about the Sansan massacre, so now he is out of favor. The nurse, nevertheless, visits Rat in secret and asks to pilot the ship. She says the sick wants him to and Rat takes Judith, the sick girl covered in blankets, and the nurse to the hammocks on his wings. The girls then wait for him to return with another sick man who was injured after finding and saving the crashed girls in the past. Judith feels bad for breaking the law and causing so much trouble by leaving Earth, now her appendix hurts and they have to take charge of the ship and travel to a hospital on Earth. Rat returns with sick Gladney and learns that Judith and Patti Gray were attacked during their cruise to space, which is the reason they got to Mars. The trip begins, soon everyone gets thirsty and hot, Gray is hurt when the ship moves between a meteor rain, she is devastated with suffering. Rat refuses to brake and is going to make the trip in six days instead of eight. He then tells his part of the story about the Sansan massacre - he left the post to save a sick man but nobody believed it back then."
"<s>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her.     Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.     Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side.     That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel.     Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others.     That isn't doing either of them any good!     Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing.     Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out.     Don't know it, he said briefly.     Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded.     Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt?     Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only      last     night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.     No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix.     Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively?     Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.     You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know.     So you?     So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered.     Cold? he inquired concernedly.     On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her.     Leave on! Hot out here.     But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!     No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?     Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact.     What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean.     He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname?     Patti.     Pretty, Patti.     No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?     Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here.     And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out?     Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.     But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough?     He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think.  <doc-sep>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up.     Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me!      When're you going to start braking     ,Rat?     I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick.     I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?     Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake.           Not brake?      Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim!     He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line?     He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders.     Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.     You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know?     Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?     Rat shook his head and said nothing.     But Roberds said eight days, and he—     —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No.     I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do!     Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think.     You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for      you     ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land.     Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret.     Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces?     I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too.     The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position.     Earth! she shouted.     Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?     Just name it!     Not drink long time. Some water?     Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.     There isn't any left, Rat.     Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather.     She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.     Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you?     He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen.     But why didn't you explain?     He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after.     Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship.     They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now.     The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.     Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat.     Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're—     Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.  <doc-sep>Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets.     Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.     Sorry! Rat whispered.     Shut up and drive! she cried.     Patti ... Judith called out, in pain.     Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers.     Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls.     Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!     How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes.     She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant!     A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair.  <doc-sep></s>","Patti Gray is Judith's nurse, governess, guard and everything of that kind. Judith is only seventeen and they are pretty close with Patti. The least watches over the sick, reports her condition and fulfills the girl's request like asking Rat to pilot the ship. Judith relies on her nurse, she calls for her when in pain and tells her how sorry she is for causing trouble. Judith's call makes Patti get up even when she herself is in pain. She is anxious for the girl not making it to the hospital. The two stick together as they crashed together after an attack on their spaceship and have to return to Earth together. "
"<s>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up.     Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me!      When're you going to start braking     ,Rat?     I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick.     I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?     Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake.           Not brake?      Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim!     He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line?     He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders.     Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.     You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know?     Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?     Rat shook his head and said nothing.     But Roberds said eight days, and he—     —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No.     I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do!     Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think.     You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for      you     ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land.     Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret.     Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces?     I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too.     The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position.     Earth! she shouted.     Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?     Just name it!     Not drink long time. Some water?     Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.     There isn't any left, Rat.     Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather.     She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.     Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you?     He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen.     But why didn't you explain?     He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after.     Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship.     They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now.     The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.     Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat.     Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're—     Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.  <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair.     Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?     True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny!     Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.     Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just      might     be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be!     The nurse came out of the door.     How is she? Roberds asked.     Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking....     We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock.     I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take?     Eight days, in      that     ship.     Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney.     Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked.     We call him Rat, Roberds said.     She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record?     Peterson opened his mouth.     Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell.     Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?     Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that?     Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.     As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here.     But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution.     The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him.     The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.     Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson.     They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright.     Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed.     Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.     Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses!     Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they?     I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled.  <doc-sep>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her.     Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.     Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side.     That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel.     Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others.     That isn't doing either of them any good!     Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing.     Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out.     Don't know it, he said briefly.     Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded.     Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt?     Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only      last     night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.     No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix.     Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively?     Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.     You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know.     So you?     So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered.     Cold? he inquired concernedly.     On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her.     Leave on! Hot out here.     But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!     No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?     Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact.     What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean.     He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname?     Patti.     Pretty, Patti.     No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?     Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here.     And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out?     Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.     But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough?     He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think.  <doc-sep></s>","From the very beginning Patti is keen one Rat. When their gazes first meet she almost smiles back. She has to hide her goodwill as Rat is despised by the crew of the ship. The nurse is interested in his background and asks Roberds and Peterson. After learning about him leaving the post she wonders why he wasn't executed and feel sympathy for Rat. She visits him in secret to ask to pilot the ship, because her and the sick girl need to get to Earth as fast as possible and believe he can help. Rat does everything in a fast and well-organized way and plans to reach Earth in six days without brakes. He instructs Patti to cover herself in blankets not to get too hot and decides how the water will be distributed. He also tells about trying to save a man being the reason for him leaving the post and Patti feels even more sympathy. Nevertheless, during the journey they have a fight when she starts panicking and demanding water and Rat beats her. He tries to enforce his rules on the ship and others ask him to brake, Patti hurts herself during Rat's manoeuvres between the meteorites but she stands it. "
"<s>Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again.     I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you—     —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.     Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it.     He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch.     She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks.     Judith? she asked.     Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe.     No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her.     Hey! Where are you going now?     To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back.     Where has he gone? Judith called.     Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you.  <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him.     The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories.     She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence.     The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures.     In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it.     You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me.     He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this.     He had not as yet looked at her.     She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood.     Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly.     Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane.     Her father.     The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures.     An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust.     Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her.     It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know?     She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her—     So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within      The Defender     . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights—     The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling.     Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead.     The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes.     Come here, he ordered.     The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him.     He was studying her face very carefully.     She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping.     With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely.     He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before?     No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact.     Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn?     No.     Do you have a son?     No.     His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight.     Apparently he suspected nothing.       Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon.        III     Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple      terif     and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe.     For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge.     Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib.     When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling.     Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly.     Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily.     Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers.      But the woman—!       That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line.     But—      can you deny that you are the woman     ?     The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark.     There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman.     The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl.     Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed!     Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She      must     make it a known quantity.     Did your father send it to you? she asked.     The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse.     What did he say about it?     He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem.     Is that all he said?     That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them?     Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring.     Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right.     You could be courtmartialed for that.     Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of      terif     . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner.     Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed?     The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit.     She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember.     I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn.     Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone.     Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly.     Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat.     She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out.     This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually.     Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose.     Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals.     The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor?     She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers.  <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock.     I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the      why     of that law.     Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the      why     of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home.     How about these men that live and work here?     They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without.     Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson!     Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort.     Gray? Judith asked fearfully.     Yes?     Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?     Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned.     Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed.     I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney.     But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson?     Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles.     And Peterson? she prompted.     Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him.           Fan     him? I don't understand.     Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away.     He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.     You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up.     Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom!     Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.     Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!  <doc-sep></s>","The crashing of the ship brings Judith and Patti to Mars where they meet two miners and then the whole crew of the spaceship including Rat. Judith wouldn't get that sick and lose the means to return to Earth if the ship didn't crash. The miners wouldn't suffer after helping the girls. Therefore, Judith wouldn't learn the lesson of breaking the law and leaving Earth.  The crashing also leads to the necessity of Rat piloting the ship and all the party suffering from heat and thirst. The whole situation of danger and limitless occurs because the ship crashed and the girl gets sick on Mars, so she needs to get to Earth immediately. "
"<s>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her.     Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.     Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side.     That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel.     Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others.     That isn't doing either of them any good!     Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing.     Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out.     Don't know it, he said briefly.     Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded.     Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt?     Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only      last     night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.     No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix.     Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively?     Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.     You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know.     So you?     So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered.     Cold? he inquired concernedly.     On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her.     Leave on! Hot out here.     But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!     No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?     Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact.     What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean.     He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname?     Patti.     Pretty, Patti.     No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?     Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here.     And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out?     Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.     But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough?     He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think.  <doc-sep>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up.     Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me!      When're you going to start braking     ,Rat?     I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick.     I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?     Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake.           Not brake?      Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim!     He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line?     He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders.     Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.     You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know?     Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?     Rat shook his head and said nothing.     But Roberds said eight days, and he—     —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No.     I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do!     Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think.     You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for      you     ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land.     Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret.     Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces?     I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too.     The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position.     Earth! she shouted.     Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?     Just name it!     Not drink long time. Some water?     Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.     There isn't any left, Rat.     Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather.     She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.     Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you?     He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen.     But why didn't you explain?     He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after.     Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship.     They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now.     The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.     Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat.     Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're—     Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.  <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair.     Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?     True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny!     Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.     Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just      might     be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be!     The nurse came out of the door.     How is she? Roberds asked.     Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking....     We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock.     I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take?     Eight days, in      that     ship.     Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney.     Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked.     We call him Rat, Roberds said.     She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record?     Peterson opened his mouth.     Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell.     Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?     Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that?     Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.     As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here.     But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution.     The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him.     The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.     Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson.     They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright.     Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed.     Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.     Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses!     Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they?     I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled.  <doc-sep></s>","The story starts with Patti looking after the sick girl. She hears the dispute of the crew about the future steps and gets involved. She learns out about Rat's past and the mistake of leaving his post which led to a massacre. Nevertheless, she and the girl decide to ask him to pilot the ship, hoping it will help the sick get on Earth in time. Patti gets sympathetic towards Rat from the beginning and keeps trying to talk to him. She keeps being by Judith. Rat bring her to the hammocks on his wings and she is frightened for a second. She follows his orders and advices until her suffering gets intense. During the trip with Rat as a pilot she has to drink only twice a day to keep water and she feels extremely thirsty. She also hurts herself when the ship suddenly moves from one side to another. Water tastes like fuel to her and she gets mad at Rat for not naming the amount of days. Then she learns about Rat's point of view on the past situation with the massacre and becomes even more sympathetic towards him. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","The story starts with Karl Allen, a Second System colonist, and Joe dragging their raft from the water, hoping that they will make it in time to put their names on the list. Later we learned that the list is used to pair up the females that are coming to their colony – planet – as husbands and wives. After Karl and Joe Hill finish, they still have about two hours left before the rocket lands at Landing City. On their way towards the Landing City, Karl caught himself wondering about the trip back with a girl whom he will be paired with. Apparently, they have never seen an Earthwoman, but tales seems to cherish them as hardworking and beautiful. The speaker announces that it’s time to draw their numbers. Karl draws 53. Later, Joe and Karl agrees to meet later to see if they want to trade the girls that has their numbers. MacDonald and Claude Escher meet to discuss matters regarding the ratios between male and female at the colonies. Currently, there are not as many females on the colonized planets. From the beginning of the colonization, there were more adventuresome males than females, they headed for the new world but most of the females stayed behind. Thus, there are five females for every three males on Earth, while the colonies have more males. Thus those girls needs to be brought from their original planet, in this case the Earth, to colonies for those males there. Another problem, states MacDonald, is the number of men applying for emigration to colonized planets have been dropping. MacDonald considers this reasonable since it seems illogical for a male to move away from a place that has more females than males. Escher then disregards the qualification for colonization and decides to focus on making the people that don’t want to colonize to colonize, whether it is through convincing or forcing. Phyllis Hanson is a thirty years old woman who desires a husband. The government’s supplement offering cannot replace a husband and family. Then in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. Though she admires the man on the poster, she thought the poster is a violation of privacy. Then we see Ruby Johnson stealing a beautiful gown from the store and then getting caught. Ruby thinks that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention and that’s it. She seems to have shoplifted many times that she even knows the information that the officers want. However, to her surprised, she will be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She was shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail. She also chooses the colony planet. "
"<s>Albuquerque, New Mexico     June 15     Dear Joe:     I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done.     My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.     In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.     As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people.     Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit.     I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty.     Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do.     This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.     The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were.     I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened.     He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said.     A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.     Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area.     But—     No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him.     That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it.     The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment.     Glmpauszn  <doc-sep>Breakfast was finally over and the rest of my family dispersed to theirvarious jobs. Father simply took his briefcase and disappeared—he wasa traveling salesman and he had a morning appointment clear across thecontinent. The others, not having his particular gift, had to takethe helibus to their different destinations. Mother, as I said, was apsychiatrist. Sylvia wrote advertising copy. Tim was a meteorologist.Dan was a junior executive in a furniture moving company and expected apromotion to senior rank as soon as he achieved a better mental grip onpianos.     Only I had no job, no profession, no place in life. Of course therewere certain menial tasks a psi-negative could perform, but my parentswould have none of them—partly for my sake, but mostly for the sake oftheir own community standing.     We don't need what little money Kev could bring in, my father alwayssaid. I can afford to support my family. He can stay home and takecare of the house.     And that's what I did. Not that there was much to do except call atechno whenever one of the servomechanisms missed a beat. True enough,those things had to be watched mighty carefully because, if they brokedown, it sometimes took days before the repair and/or replacementrobots could come. There never were enough of them because ours was aconstructive society. Still, being a machine-sitter isn't very much ofa career. And every function that wasn't the prerogative of a machinecould be done ten times more quickly and efficiently by some member ofmy family than I could do it. If I went ahead and did something anyway,they would just do it all over again when they got home.     So I had nothing to do all day. I had a special dispensation totake books out of the local Archives, because I was a deficient andcouldn't receive the tellie programs. Almost everybody on Earth wastelepathic to some degree and could get the amplified projections evenif he couldn't transmit or receive with his natural powers. But I gotnothing. I had to derive all my recreation from reading, and you canget awfully tired of books, especially when they're all at least ahundred years old and written by primitives. I could borrow soundtapes, but they also bored me after a while.     I thought maybe I could develop a talent for composing or painting,which would classify me as a telesensitive—artistic ability beingconsidered as the oldest, if least important, psi power—but I couldn'teven do anything like that.     About all there was left for me was to take long walks. Athletics wereout of the question; I couldn't compete with psi-boys and they didn'twant to compete with me. All the people in the neighborhood knew meand were nice to me, but I didn't need to be a 'path to tell what theywere saying to one another when I hove into sight. There's that oldestFaraday boy. Pity, such a talented family, to have a defective.       I didn't have a girl, either. Although some of them were sort ofattracted to me—I could see that—they could hardly go out with mewithout exposing themselves to ridicule. In their sandals, I would havedone the same thing, but that didn't stop me from hating them.  <doc-sep>He almost squeezed my arm when I got to the time Mom and Pop were blownup in a surfacing boat.     Well, after the funeral, there was a little money, so Sis decided wemight as well use it to migrate. There was no future for her on Earth,she figured. You know, the three-out-of-four.     How's that?     The three-out-of-four. No more than three women out of every four onEarth can expect to find husbands. Not enough men to go around. Wayback in the Twentieth Century, it began to be felt, Sis says, what withthe wars and all. Then the wars went on and a lot more men began to dieor get no good from the radioactivity. Then the best men went to theplanets, Sis says, until by now even if a woman can scrounge a personalhusband, he's not much to boast about.     The stranger nodded violently. Not on Earth, he isn't. Those busybodyanura make sure of that. What a place! Suffering gridniks, I had abellyful!     He told me about it. Women were scarce on Venus, and he hadn't beenable to find any who were willing to come out to his lonely littleislands; he had decided to go to Earth where there was supposed to be asurplus. Naturally, having been born and brought up on a very primitiveplanet, he didn't know it's a woman's world, like the older boys inschool used to say.     The moment he landed on Earth he was in trouble. He didn't know he hadto register at a government-operated hotel for transient males; hethrew a bartender through a thick plastic window for saying somethingnasty about the length of his hair; and      imagine     !—he not onlyresisted arrest, resulting in three hospitalized policemen, but hesassed the judge in open court!     Told me a man wasn't supposed to say anything except through femaleattorneys. Told      her     that where      I     came from, a man spoke his piecewhen he'd a mind to, and his woman walked by his side.     What happened? I asked breathlessly.     Oh, Guilty of This and Contempt of That. That blown-up brinosaur tookmy last munit for fines, then explained that she was remitting therest because I was a foreigner and uneducated. His eyes grew dark fora moment. He chuckled again. But I wasn't going to serve all thosefancy little prison sentences. Forcible Citizenship Indoctrination,they call it? Shook the dead-dry dust of the misbegotten, God forsakenmother world from my feet forever. The women on it deserve their men.My pockets were folded from the fines, and the paddlefeet were lookingfor me so close I didn't dare radio for more munit. So I stowed away.  <doc-sep></s>","First, Joe takes some furs that could help cover the girl, and Joe hopes that she will appreciate it. However, Hill believes that they should give less to the girls. Because the less you give, the less they will expect, and if they are spoiled, the men has to do all the farming and family raising yourself, which is all that they have to do. Joe thought of the girl as somebody he can talk to, somebody that can help him with the farm. Hill suggests for his wife to have a garden, but Karl doesn’t think she will have the time for a garden. However, it is important to note that the girls were considered as objects since Karl and Joe mentions trading them. In particular, Earthwomen are expected to be beautiful, sophisticated, glamorous, and hardworking. Moreover, Escher is thinking about persuading and forcing the girls to colonize while forgetting about the moral codes. The governments seems to expect the women without husbands to be satisfied with bridge games and benefits and lectures. "
"<s>He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!     You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!     She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close.     After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed?     Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?     Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?   <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       <doc-sep>Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors.     N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room.     I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.     There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.     And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.     I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done.     I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased.     What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it?     Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.     I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed.     She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post?     I froze. I stood there and stared at her.     She looked up and said, Well?     I—er—no post at present. N/P status.     Her fingers moved on the steno.     I gave her my address and she recorded that.     Then I paused again.     She said, And your name?     I took a deep breath and told her.     I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare—  <doc-sep></s>","Phyllis Hanson has been wanting a husband and a family for almost three years. She does not think that the bridge games and benefits and lectures can replace a husband and family. However, in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. This is clearly a violation of her privacy. However, the man on the poster is very handsome, and she looks at it again and again. Though she admires the man on the poster, she still writes a letter reporting it. Then Ruby Johnson also goes through something strange. She steals a beautiful gown from the store and then gets caught. She knows that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention because she was caught stealing dress from the . However, to her surprised, she is told that she be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She is shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail after receiving a phone call telling her to get to a specific place. She also chooses the colony planet. "
"<s>     Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd       never make it unless he somehow managed to       PICK A CRIME     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight.     Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table.     Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes.     The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job?     Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat.     Hey. You trying to make yourself sick?     Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again.     Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy?     No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment.     It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks.     Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year.     The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else?     As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies.  <doc-sep>It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.     They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.     There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.     At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick.     So let's rock, he said and stood up.     They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll.     The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time.     Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife.     He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home.     They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One.     They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth?     Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed      faux pas     .     You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks?     Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—     Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?     Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line.     Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones.     The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies.     Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't!     The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house.  <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair.     Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?     True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny!     Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.     Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just      might     be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be!     The nurse came out of the door.     How is she? Roberds asked.     Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking....     We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock.     I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take?     Eight days, in      that     ship.     Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney.     Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked.     We call him Rat, Roberds said.     She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record?     Peterson opened his mouth.     Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell.     Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?     Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that?     Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.     As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here.     But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution.     The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him.     The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.     Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson.     They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright.     Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed.     Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.     Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses!     Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they?     I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled.  <doc-sep></s>","The story first sets next to the river on Midplanet. The road connecting the river to the Landing City goes from forest to grassland, multiple small trails connects to the large one, leading towards the city. The Landing City is not really that big, especially comparing to Altair. The battered shack and headquarters building appears as they reach the Landing City. There is a grassy lot next to the landing field. The landing field is decorated with bunting and welcome signs. There is a table with government pamphlets as well as tables for luncheon food. Inside Mr. Eescher’s room, there is an intercom switch, some seats, and on his desk, there was also a drawer. Phyllis’ in an office that has a typewriter which is put inside a drawer. There is a washroom along with a mirror where she notices her worry lines. She owns a small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, in the bathroom there’s a mirror. She is on the sofa reading a book when she throws it across the room. There’s also a mail slot where she finds the odd poster. Rudy is in shop, and there’s a dress laying on the counter. In a courtroom in the detention building, there’s a judge and he has a ledger with him. Suzanne’s apartment has needle shower with perfume dispenser, build-in soft-drink bar in the library, as well as all-communications set and electrical massager. There is also a telephone, and her bedroom has a hat box. She arrives at a brownstone office building, there’s a buzzer and a then a young man appears in the doorway. There are bright lights inside the room, and there was a battery of chairs against one side of the room where the girls are sitting. "
"<s>It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.     And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.     You going to raise a litter, Joe?     Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing.     One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself.     He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim.     I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too.     Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time!     They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire.     Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.     The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails.     Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like.     Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe.      Earth!          It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing      definite     tooffer, no real facts at all.     Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.     They say they're good workers, Hill said.     Karl nodded. Pretty, too.     They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more.     Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world?     Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous.     Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define.     The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it.     We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said.     I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could.     It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from      Earth     ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women.       She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?     A loudspeaker blared.     All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists....     There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else.     Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them.     He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late.     Sandwich, mister? Pop?     Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame.     The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.     ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you....     ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward....     ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture....     ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five....     Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade.     Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions.     There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire.     He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best.     The twinkling fire came nearer.      II     A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher.     Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.     Please send him right in.     That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not.     The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.     MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.     He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department.     Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now?     You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers.     Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase.     He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?     Escher shook his head blankly.     Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not.     Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize.     MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.     But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know.     Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not?     What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything?     Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy.     The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit.     When do they have to have a solution?     As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good.     All right, by then we'll have the answer.     MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off.     How come?     MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?     When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too.     He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway.     He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go.     There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.     He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough.     Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't      want     to colonize.     The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.     No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code.      III     Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin.     She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.     She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either.     Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.     Going out tonight, Phyl?     She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.     I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout.     The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring.     Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre.     At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go.     She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest.     It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor.     What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout.     Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife.     But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again.     She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....     Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide.     She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.       It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately!       Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance!         Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon....       The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications.     She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so....     And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages.     It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.       But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities!    <doc-sep>The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation.     He said, How much does the freight cost?     Broderick told him.     It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.     Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more.     You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit!     What is that? asked Zotul skeptically.     It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect.     On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit?     Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan.     Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.     Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it.     It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.     I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures.     The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely.     Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.     I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.     I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down.     We haven't the equipment.     We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany.  <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words.     I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage.     This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe....     In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships.           Your guess happens to be the precise truth.          At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.     She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth.     Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored.     Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.     But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.     Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers.     Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few.     Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born.  <doc-sep></s>","They are meeting because currently, there are not as many females on the colonized planets. And this is a huge problem. From the beginning of the colonization, there were more adventuresome males than females, thus they headed for the new world but most of the females stayed behind. The disproportional rate in the genders that gone to colonies lead to five females for every three males on Earth, while the colonies have the opposite. Hence, those girls needs to be shipped from their original planet, in this case the Earth, to colony planets for those males there. However, not many girls are applying to go. Another problem, states MacDonald, is the number of men applying for emigration to colonized planets have been dropping. MacDonald considers this reasonable since it seems illogical for a male to move away from a place that has more females than males. Escher then disregards the qualification for colonization and decides to focus on making the people that don’t want to colonize to colonize, whether it is through convincing or forcing. "
"<s>   Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.     She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time?     Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report!     There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.     Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours.     He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.     Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that.     The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet.     Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily.      Molly stepped in front of him.     You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes.     Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor.  <doc-sep></s>","An army ship lands near a settlement, and people look out their windows, grumbling about its presence because they want no contact with the army. A soldier disembarks and stands at attention facing the settlement, and the people assume he must be proud, ornery, or drunk. Eventually, a resident named Bob Rossel goes out to see what the soldier wants. The soldier identifies himself as Captain Dylan, explaining that he has a message from Fleet Headquarters for the person in charge. Rossel takes the envelope since they don’t have anyone in charge. A young man inside the ship tosses Dylan a bottle, asks if he can leave, and tells him he’ll be back that night. Rossel is appalled that the younger soldier appears drunk and throws Dylan a bottle of liquor. Dylan tells Rossel to read the message because they don’t have much time and starts walking toward the settlement as the ship takes off.	Man’s first contact with aliens had occurred at the Lupus V Colony in 2360, which aliens destroyed. When the army came to investigate, it found 31 of the 70 colonists dead, with the rest, including women and children, missing. Buildings had burned, and all technical equipment was missing. The security bomb, one of which was planted in each colony to be detonated in such an emergency, had failed to go off—the detonating wire had been dug up where it was buried 12 inches deep and cut. Because there had been 500 years of peace and people were conditioned to be anti-war, the army was small and lacked respect. So the army couldn’t take the time to find out exactly what had happened but just spread the news to other colonies, most of which evacuated before they were attacked.	The message Dylan delivers is that the aliens are attacking again; this settlement needs to evacuate. A big gloomy man named Rush demands help from the army fleet, but Dylan informs him that the army is too weak to help. Dylan tells them that Lt. Bossio is warning Planet Three and returning that night to pick him up. Everyone must be gone by then. Dylan digs up the detonator wire and finds it has been cut. Rossel tells him their ship will only hold 60 of their 40 colonists and asks Dylan to take the rest on the army ship. Dylan offers to ask Bossio and then shows Rossel the cut wire. They discuss whether a colonist or an animal could have cut it. Dylan splices the wire as Rossel leaves.	Meanwhile, an alien is hiding nearby, watching the humans prepare to leave. He presses a button that disables their ship. Rossel has been trying to reach Planet Three and can’t get an answer; Dylan realizes the colony there is dead, so Bossio is, too. People strip their clothes to reduce their weight and take on more people. Forty-six are able to board. When the ship tries to lift off, it can’t get off the ground.	"
"<s>   Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  <doc-sep>He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined upalong the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.     She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered.Looking for a good time?     Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were manythings he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done.Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: Soldiers, cometo attention and report!     There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eightextremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of handstouching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at anangle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.     Sir, they chorused, we have met the enemy and he is ours.     He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particularseemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.     Come here, fellow, Roddie said. Let's see if I can fix that.     The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whippedout a bayonet.     Death to Invaders! he yelled, and charged crazily.      Molly stepped in front of him.     You aren't being very nice to my baby, she murmured, and thrust herknitting needles into his eyes.     Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a softspot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor.  <doc-sep>   SOLDIER BOY     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless       and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't.          In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come.       —      Scandinavian legend        Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement.     There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them.     After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness.     Well, I never, a nice lady said.     What's he just      standing     there for? another lady said.     And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers.     The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place on an unnamed planet some time after an alien attack in the year 2360. Colonists settled the planet and have built a village consisting of several houses and a radio shack. Presumably, this is where the colonists contact other colonies. It is also where the detonator for the security bomb is located, with the wire buried under 12 inches of dirt. The atmosphere is Earth-like. There are thick clouds overnight, and the morning is misty and cold. The breeze carries the smell of snow, and later in the day, the snow arrives. The planet is suitable for agriculture because the colonists have already harvested their warmer weather crops and planted their winter crops. The colonists have advanced technology because they have machines that plant and harvest and automatically run their factories. The temperature is below freezing, so people are staying in their houses and drinking coffee. A sister planet colony on Planet Three is much like this colony. The two colonies maintain contact via radios, and mailships make regular runs between the settlements on the different planets. Every settlement is equipped with a security bomb to be detonated in the event of an alien attack. The purpose of discharging the bomb is to prevent hostile aliens from learning important information about humans, including their technology and body chemistry.Another setting mentioned in the story is the Lupus V colony attacked by aliens late in the year 2360. Lupus V had 70 registered colonists, including men, women, and children. It also had technical equipment, radios, guns, machines, and books. When the army arrived after the alien attack, everything had been taken, along with 39 women and children; 31 people died in the attack or the subsequent fire that the aliens set with their heat ray. The security bomb had not been detonated because the wire to it had been cut, even though it was buried 12 inches under the soil."
"<s>An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shavenface, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table andlistened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonistswere beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with greatsuddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait,between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage.     Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than thosein the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylangrinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bakeit and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerlyand inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm andimpregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and setup automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without everhaving lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a homeout of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. Butat least this was better than the wailing of the cities.     This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at allby any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and anoutcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing.He stirred restlessly.     By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't muchto say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: Lupus,Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something?     Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was verypossible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need fordiscussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear thehell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it.     But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number ofwomen began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up theiranger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward andconfronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance.     See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our      home     . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've beenpaying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time youearned your keep. We demand....     It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hopedthat he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of himnow and giving him that name of ancient contempt, soldier boy. Thegloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was.     There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs thatwere obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs forthe brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is.  <doc-sep>Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold andpathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go outin that miserable cold to meet him.     The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and nottoo clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger thanRossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there weretears gathering in the ends of his eyes.     Captain Dylan, sir. His voice was low and did not carry. I have amessage from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here?     Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. Nobody's in charge here. If youwant a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up?     The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes.Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel.It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. Hewas about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of thehovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young manappeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan.     C'n I go now, Jim?     Dylan turned and nodded.     Be back for you tonight, the young man called, and then, grinning,he yelled Catch and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it andput it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. Amoment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift.     Was he      drunk     ? Rossel began angrily. Was that a bottle of      liquor     ?     The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated theenvelope in Rossel's hand. You'd better read that and get moving. Wehaven't much time.     He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. AsRossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving butcould not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watchthat, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongyclouds and the cold.       After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again.  <doc-sep>Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wantedthe army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this wasnot the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might becoming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He hadrealized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the historyof Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a nobledream, it was ended now and it was time to move.     We'd better get going, he finally said, and there was quiet.Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three ofthis system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructedto have you gone by then.     For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off andthe rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or twostopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy mansaid he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him offhis planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out tocheck the bomb, grateful for the action.     Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in theradio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following thewire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, andit felt fine.     Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what hadhappened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. Thiswould be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him.After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk,a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just likethat. It would take time.     He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip.     Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain.Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirtyyears he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his wayalong the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolledand got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lotof ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, andhe had done them all.     Once he had even studied military tactics.     He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green.But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of acrazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd workedtoo long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioningout on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardiansof the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-downdoctor. And ... now he was a captain.     He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you waitand the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn dayswas upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hellwith it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner ofthe bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insultswhich are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost thecore of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point:it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owednobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of somethingpleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands.     Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment itthrew him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wirehad just been cut.  <doc-sep></s>","Captain Dylan is in the Fleet army and travels with Lieutenant Bossio to colonies on different planets with the message that an alien attack is imminent and the colonists must evacuate. He has become a drunk, which is not uncommon in the army because soldiers were outcasts. For the past three weeks, he and Bossio have been evacuating colonies—the current one is their fifth and last. Prior to this mission, he has spent the last 30 years hanging around, getting drunk, and waiting for something to happen. He was made a captain just before this mission. Looking back, he finds it humorous that he used to study military tactics as if he would need to know them. After his father died of a hernia that he developed from working too long on a heavy planet, he joined the army. Dylan was lured by the army’s recruiting advertisements calling itself guardians of the frontier. When he enlisted, anti-war conditioning wasn’t as strong as it is now, so people weren’t as resentful and disrespectful of soldiers then. Dylan feels that along the way, after all the time he spent in bars and jails, he lost his core. He also believes it doesn’t matter whether he makes it back home: he has no connections and doesn’t owe anybody anything. Drinking has become a way of life, and while he digs for the wire to the bomb, he takes a drink, but after he finds the wire has been cut, he reaches for his bottle but for the first time in a long time, stops before taking a drink. When the colonists start looking to him for help and answers, Dylan is somewhat pleased because now they are showing him respect, but he is annoyed, too, since it is only because they are scared and need help. When Dylan learns that Planet Three hasn’t answered any radio calls, he connects that to the fact he hasn’t been able to reach Bossio and concludes that the colonists and Bossio are dead. He knows this means he will have to stay behind on the planet when the colonists leave, but that doesn’t bother him. What does bother him is that Bossio is dead only because they had come to help these people—people who wanted nothing to do with them until their lives were threatened. Bossio was his best friend, and Dylan mourns his loss. Even though Dylan resents the people for their disregard for him and the army, he has sympathy for them. He doesn’t want to watch their pain when the women have to leave their men behind, and he is touched when an old woman offers him coffee and a mackinaw to help him stay warm. As he watches Rossel and other men saying goodbye to their wives and children, Dylan begins losing the shell the last 30 years had created around him and begins to feel that these people are his people."
"<s>   SOLDIER BOY     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless       and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't.          In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning firethe Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace,and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon himagain, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north hewill come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark andthe cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come.       —      Scandinavian legend        Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; inthe morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy,snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops wereall down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffeeand remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. Itwas well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landedin a field near the settlement.     There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which thecolonists could act and feel as they had always done. They thereforegrumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who hadconvenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, butno one went out to greet them.     After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the shipand stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remainedthere, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a sillything to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride orjust plain orneriness.     Well, I never, a nice lady said.     What's he just      standing     there for? another lady said.     And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of asoldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk.The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the childrenand the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh socarefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally,to despise soldiers.     The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind.  <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy.     When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something.     For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut.     In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut.     The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back.     In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had.     This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip.  <doc-sep>   Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  <doc-sep></s>","The army has no respect from the colonists; they don’t want anything to do with it because they associate it with war. The people at this time have been conditioned to despise war and anything to do with it. When they see Captain Dylan standing by his ship and facing the village, they think he is ridiculous or possibly drunk. Rossel noticed that Dylan appeared like a typical soldier: not very neat and not very clean, and his salute lacked proper military precision. And when Lt. Bossio tosses Dylan a bottle of liquor, Rossel isn’t surprised because of the reputation soldiers have for being drunks; in fact, Rossel is disgusted by the liquor and Bossio’s drunkenness. When aliens attacked Lupus V in 2360, the army found the destruction and dead and discovered why their security bomb hadn’t detonated. There was little the army could do about the alien attack because the army had become so small and weak. There had been peace for 500 years when people didn’t need the army, so its equipment was old, and many of the soldiers were from the bottom of society: drinkers and gamblers. So the army is just notifying other colonies of the attack and warning them to evacuate. When the colonists learn that they have to evacuate due to the threat of an alien attack, Rossel demands that the fleet defend them, and another man named Rush asks where the army fleet is, expecting it to come to their defense. When Dylan explains there is no fleet, just a few hundred obsolete ships, he is tempted to tell them that no one wants an army until it is needed. Dylan himself has been in the army for 30 years and has never seen any action. And when Rossel realizes the colony’s ship won’t hold all of the colonists, he asks if any fleet ships are within radio distance that they could summon to help with their evacuation, hoping that the army is near enough to be of help. Ironically, the army that they despise now offers their only hope.  "
"<s>She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below herand looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, piercedby the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was insight.     Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldierhad ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never leftthe city, were not built to do so. But      he     was here; with luck, hecould capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long.     Go on! he ordered hoarsely. Move!     There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosenedwire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on.     Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted.Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiarnon-mechanical construction.     Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compellingas that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that tremblingbody of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead.     He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fogthinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the lasthundred feet to sanctuary.     They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept withinthe tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, andslept for several hours.  <doc-sep>The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien raceoccurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way fromhome. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alienforce attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage andthe dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for thearmy.     When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists,thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children,were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines,even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so werethe bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had,nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldierfinally stumbled on something.     For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the mainbuildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to beburied in the center of each colony, because it was important to blowa whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learnvital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bombat Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. Thedetonating wire had been cut.     In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches ofearth, the wire had been dug up and cut.     The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After fivehundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small,weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spreadthe news, and Man began to fall back.     In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-wonstars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most ofthe colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, diedin fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in thoseships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of asociety which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the onlydefense Earth had.     This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earthwith a bottle on his hip.  <doc-sep>Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined thepatient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock.     It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed offthe floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detachedat the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaughtand could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one anotherharmlessly.      Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently anothercasualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By thetime Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddieswore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with piecesof the other to make a whole one.     To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie wasnew at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch thesoldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamedhim to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invadersrepeatedly broke through and had to be burned out.     Soon there would be nothing left of the      Private Property Keep Out     that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted tothem when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselveswould be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayedservants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender.     And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. Hemight remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. AndMolly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight withInvaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say.     Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty asthe others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers mightaccept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted firstaid was useful to them.     He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, whenheated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick onthe grayish spot where it seemed to belong.     Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his newidea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filledwith the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating outthe sparks in his uncut blond mane.     As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defensefirefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxidefoam.     Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, theywere unbearably wearing.  <doc-sep></s>","When the army investigates the destruction of Lupus V, it discovers that the wire to the bomb that would blow up the community had been cut. The wire was hidden 12 inches under the ground, so it would not have been easy to find. Since the wire was cut, the bomb didn’t explode, enabling the aliens to take the women and children, along with all the technology, from the planet. The purpose of the bomb was to prevent the aliens from gaining knowledge of human technology and body chemistry; presumably, aliens would be able to use this information against humans in the future. Because Dylan knows of the cut wire on Lupus V, he checks the wire for the bomb on the planet he has come to evacuate. When he discovers the wire is cut here, too, he notes that the ends are clean, so someone made the cut recently. The ground over the wire was packed down, so whoever cut it also wanted to hide that it had been tampered with. Rossel assumes one of the colonists must have cut the wire, possibly thinking it was dangerous for the colonists and just a silly government rule. After Dylan tells him about the wire being cut on Lupus V, Rossel plans to question everyone. Dylan wonders if the aliens could have cut it by telepathy of one of the colonists but rules that out because if they could control one human, they could control all of them. Dylan then wonders if an alien has done it. No one knows what the aliens look like, but for them to have intelligence, they would need a large brain, making the alien about the size of a large dog. Dylan knows all the animals on the planet had been vetted before the colony was settled. When he tells the others his suspicion, Rush says the only animal they’ve seen nearby is a viggle, which is something like a monkey with four legs. The viggle passed Biology’s screening, so the viggle is ruled out. Although Dylan doesn’t discover the alien hidden in its electric cocoon, he is convinced that aliens cut the wire. He is also convinced that the alien attack is imminent."
"<s>   Butterfly 9     By DONALD KEITH     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to       offer—one where giant economy-size trouble       had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!        I     At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.     You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper.     This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.     Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many?     I need something. I'm sure losing my grip.     Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Jeff Elliott and his wife Ann meet a peculiar stranger, Mr. Snader, at a restaurant in the year 1957 as they are discussing Jeff’s desire to go 5 years into the past to buy a building for $2000 that would’ve changed his luck entirely. The stranger had been listening to their conversation and was seeking someone with Jeff’s credentials (color television engineer) to complete an illegal job he’d been hired for. Jeff and Ann have no idea that Mr. Snader is on such a job, but entertain his quirky conversation.Mr. Snader has a friendly and persuasive personality, narrowly convincing Jeff and Ann to follow him to his time travel station and take a free trip to see if they like it. The Elliots do not perceive the situation as dangerous, and continue choosing to trust him at each step. Ultimately, the Elliots are escorted six years back in time through a time travelling process that appears like stepping through a screen, but their past is nothing like they remember. It is a different place entirely, and though they are frightened, their excitement and perhaps also their complete reliance on Mr. Snader to get them back home, causes them to keep following him even though he has become mean with them. Mr. Snader takes the Elliotts to an apartment house to meet Septo Kersey and Dumont Bullen, the general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine. It’s revealed that Mr. Snader tricked the Elliots, and brought them to Mr. Bullen who had illegally sought Jeff’s services as a color engineer to profit his own interests by creating color television that did not yet exist in their time. Jeff was furious, and totally helpless.Jeff and Ann were allowed to leave, because their captors were certain that they could not actually escape them. They had no idea how to leave this timeline, and had no way of finding justice being illegally present with no work permits. When Jeff and Ann stop for lunch and try to pay with the money in their pockets (which appears as illegal tender), they are approached by an officer and find out they are in a place called Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Everyone in the interaction is deeply confused, because time travel is not understood to be possible by the public - Jeff and Ann look crazy. Both are escorted to separate jail cells in a prison.One of Mr. Bullen's barmen, a lawyer, was sent to arrange Jeff’s release, if he was willing to cooperate and go work for Mr. Bullen. The lawyer has to explain to Jeff the concept of time travelling before he can get any cooperation, and so says that time travel is entering a different dimension, not moving along a linear timeline. Things look so different to Jeff in the past because he didn’t travel back a linear path to exactly the way things were when he experienced these things six years ago. The story ends during their discussion."
"<s>   Butterfly 9     By DONALD KEITH     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to       offer—one where giant economy-size trouble       had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!        I     At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.     You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper.     This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.     Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many?     I need something. I'm sure losing my grip.     Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet.  <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  <doc-sep>Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say!     Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily.     You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge.     Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?     Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front.     I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way.     Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon.     Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann.     When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?     No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place on Earth, in the year 1957. It opens in a restaurant, and quickly transitions to Mr. Snader’s 4-D TRAVEL BEURO time travel station, inside of a “middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood.” They could hear traffic dimly in the station and see mountains out the windows on the horizon.  The time travelling room appears like a doctor's waiting room, with chair lined walls. There is a station sign - 701 - that hangs on the ceiling and two movie screens on the far ends of the room. Stepping through one screen would take them forwards in time, and one backwards in time. The Elliotts go to station 725, which Mr. Snader tells them is six years in the past.The past is very unfamiliar, more industrialized with more highways than they remember. After travelling in a limousine, they transition to a 6th floor apartment house of a building with heavy carpets and soft lighting.The final settings are a lunch counter, with unfamiliar food to the Elliotts, and finally their jail cells."
"<s>   Butterfly 9     By DONALD KEITH     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to       offer—one where giant economy-size trouble       had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!        I     At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.     You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper.     This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.     Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many?     I need something. I'm sure losing my grip.     Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caughtit up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with hertouch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through herbusiness-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloakthrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face eventhe unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strongshow of decisiveness.     In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yetnow they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through thewrong end of a telescope.     Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength andsecurity to each other? Or had they merely been playing family,experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch ofsilly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather towing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Naturedecided to wipe them out?     As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind comeslowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had beentreading.     Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. News! Lunar ObservatoryOne reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind theSun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked andrechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar Onefeels duty-bound to release.      Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longervisible!          The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise havereceived this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemednot to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incrediblestatement from penetrating.     She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end ofwhich was smudged with dirt.     Without looking at them, she said, Ivan left the Deep Space Bartwenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way backI searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. Ihad to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into theground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be      in     the leather, as ifit had lain for years in the grave?     By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they hadseen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said wastrue. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangelyheavy.     And see what's written on it, she added.     They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, franticletters were two words:     Going down!  <doc-sep></s>","Time travel is suggested as a way to solve troubles. To fix regrets. Ironically, it is not this at all, because the way time travel works is not linear. Thus, it’s not possible to go back to an exact moment in your past and make a different decision.Jeff is very impatient about the time they are spending with Mr. Snader, but continues to be roped into one thing and the next by convincing himself that they are in no real danger. There is a kind of tension between Jeff feeling like he is wasting time, but then allowing time to run on as their involvement with Mr. Snader deepens further and further until they lose 6 years of time completely."
"<s>   Butterfly 9     By DONALD KEITH     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to       offer—one where giant economy-size trouble       had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!        I     At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table.Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.     You're still the smartest color engineer in television, Ann told Jeffas they dallied with their food. You'll bounce back. Now eat yoursupper.     This beanery is too noisy and hot, he grumbled. I can't eat. Can'ttalk. Can't think. He took a silver pillbox from his pocket andfumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red andyellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.     Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. Lately you chew pills likepopcorn, she said. Do you really need so many?     I need something. I'm sure losing my grip.     Ann stared at him. Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lostyour lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're youngyet.  <doc-sep>Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. No fog about this!You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract,but you do what I say!     Why, the man thinks he owns you. Ann laughed shakily.     You'll find my barmen know their law, Bullen said. This isn't theway I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with yourknowledge.     Kersey said politely, You are here illegally, with no immigratepermit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullenhas taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you canmake a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for youto live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?     Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. Hewondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strangestreets. But he put on a bold front.     I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to workfor you, he said. My wife and I are walking out right now. Try andstop us, legally or any other way.     Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullenchuckled deep in his throat. Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Goon, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask forBullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrowpre-noon.     Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann.     When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. We made it.For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?     No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers. Helooked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there wasno sign of pursuit. It's a long time since supper.  <doc-sep>Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one.     The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you.     He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant.     You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time?     Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost?     Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.     Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:     4-D TRAVEL BEURO     Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent     Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different.     Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise.     You mean you come from the future?     Just different time. I show you. You come with me?     Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce.     Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour.     It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision.     Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged?     As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged.     Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work?     Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather.     Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips.     Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay.     Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite?     Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape.  <doc-sep></s>","Jeff and Ann Elliott are a married couple. Ann is supportive of Jeff, and assures him that with their youth he will be able to rebuild his failed business. She reassures him throughout the story, even at points where it ultimately leads them into deeper trouble - such as when she tells him it wouldn’t hurt to try Mr. Snader’s time travel. Jeff is protective of Ann on several occasions, like at the start of the story suggesting he would start a brawl at the restaurant if the stranger was interested in Ann’s beauty. He is also upset enough with his business struggles that he needs to take sleeping pills, of which Ann is concerned about the amount.They remain together in the story until they are held in separate jail cells. They do not have any major disagreements in the story, and seem to enjoy their time together, only hoping to improve their lot by trying a risky time travel adventure."
"<s>A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted themheartily.     Solid man, Greet! he exclaimed. You're a real scratcher! And is thisour sharp? He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.     Just what you order, Snader said proudly. His name—Jeff Elliott.Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. AnnElliott.     The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. Prime! I wish joy, hesaid to Ann and Jeff. I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting.     He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking outon the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, andin it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunteda perfunctory Wish joy when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyesstudied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.     Snader did not sit down, however. No need for me now, he said, andmoved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.     Bullen nodded. You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out.     Here, wait a minute! Jeff called. But Snader was gone.     Sit still, Bullen growled to Jeff. You understand radioptics?     The blood went to Jeff's head. My business is television, if that'swhat you mean. What's this about?     Tell him, Kersey, the big man said, and stared out the window.     Kersey began, You understand, I think, that you have come back intime. About six years back.     That's a matter of opinion, but go on.     I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr.Dumont Bullen. He nodded toward the big man. Chromatics have notyet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are wellunderstood in your time, are they not?     What's chromatics? Color television?     Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think.     Jeff nodded. So what?     The old man beamed at him. You are here to work for our company. Youwill enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave.     Jeff stood up. Don't tell me who I'll work for.  <doc-sep>Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. I haven't finished eating. Let'schat with the gent. She added in an undertone to Jeff, Must be apsycho—but sort of an inspired one.     The man said to Ann, You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people.I join you.     He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table withan easy grace that was almost arrogant.     You are unhappy in 1957, he went on. Discouraged. Restless. Why nottake trip to another time?     Why not? Ann said gaily. How much does it cost?     Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe wetalk money. He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.     Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:     4-D TRAVEL BEURO     Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent     Mr. Snader's bureau is different, Jeff said to his wife. He evenspells it different.     Snader chuckled. I come from other time. We spell otherwise.     You mean you come from the future?     Just different time. I show you. You come with me?     Come where? Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The mandidn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor andforce.     Come on little trip to different time, invited Snader. He addedpersuasively, Could be back here in hour.     It would be painless, I suppose? Jeff gave it a touch of derision.     Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips everyday. I look damaged?     As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar andhis nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeffpolitely agreed that he did not look damaged.     Ann was enjoying this. Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your timetravel work?     Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Toocomplicated. He flashed his white teeth. You think time travel notpossible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather.     Ann said, Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips.     Invite many people, Snader said quickly. Not expensive. You knowMissing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They gowith me to other time. Many stay.     Oh, sure, Jeff said. But how do you select the ones to invite?     Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape.  <doc-sep>Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name wasElliott?     Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. Mr. Snader, youheard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a goodchance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into thepast and correct mistakes they've made?     They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them.     Don't you wish it were true? she sighed to Jeff.     You afraid to believe, said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in hisrestless eyes. Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station.Very near here.     Ann jumped up. It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, ifanything.     Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night'smadness—a yearning to forget his troubles. Okay, just for kicks. Butwe go in my car.     Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-likegrace of his short, broad body.     This is no ordinary oddball, Jeff told Ann. He's tricky. He's gotsome gimmick.     First I just played him along, to see how loony he was, Ann said.Now I wonder who's kidding whom. She concluded thoughtfully, He'skind of handsome, in a tough way.      II     Snader's station proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in agood neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear thewhisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warmdusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.     Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a finemetal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with aflourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.     'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,' she murmured toJeff. This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den.     No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much, he said.There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' forsome daffy religious sect.     They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snadersaid, Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau.     The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward thenext room, after a glance at Snader's key.     The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shutafter them.     The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along thewalls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middleof the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant televisionscreens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.     The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, anarrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word      Ante     , and tothe right with the word      Post     .       Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. Oneappeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats likea railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the leftwall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-linedcorridor moved toward him from that direction.     Somebody worked hard on this layout, he said to Snader. What's itfor?     Time travel, said Snader. You like?     Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream oftime, I suppose?  <doc-sep></s>","Initially, the Elliotts find Mr. Snader to be peculiar with his mustache, facial scar, traces of a broken nose, and accented speech. Jeff is not interested in engaging with him, but Ann continues to deepen their conversation with him at the restaurant thinking that Mr. Snader is insane and she will humor his ideas.Mr. Snader shows hints of being forceful to the Elliots throughout the story. His persuasiveness to come to his time travel station is forceful at times, he takes their arms to escort them into the future portal (as if he wants to ensure their compliance), and once they are roaming the city in the future Mr. Snader largely drops the act and stops being nice to the Elliots altogether (ignoring their requests for him to drive safely, and being curt with them to get them into his drop off spot with Mr. Bullen).The Elliots are captivated by the silliness of Mr. Snader’s story at first, believing it is a magic trick right up until they travel into the past, and then seem largely blinded by their curiosity and excitement to think critically about how much danger they are really in. They acknowledge Mr. Snader is being deceitful at times, like when Jeff asks for his questions to be answered, but become so reliant on Mr. Snader’s support to get them back home that they remain with him. When Mr. Snader’s plan is revealed - that he has delivered the Eliotts into the past to be forced into labor to create a color television company - they feel betrayed by Mr. Snader."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   TROUBLE ON TYCHO     By NELSON S. BOND     Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of     the Moon Station's existence. But there came     the day when his comrades found that the worth     of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories March 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.     Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.     The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.     Report ready, Jones?     Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get      anything     right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—     Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all.     That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?     It      was all     , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed:      Cond. ofObs.     He noted the proper figures under the headings      Sun Spots     :      MaxFreq.     —      Min. Freq.     ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.     This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.           Weather forecast for Terra     , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.     The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.     O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!     I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice.     Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.     Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped.       You     , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—     The Dome Commander's niece giggled.     That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice.     It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.     That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.     Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work.     South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Isobar Jones’ first call of the day was from Dome Commander Colonel Eagon telling him to deliver his weather reports to Riley Sparks, the Terra contact, ASAP. He works diligently but is soon called again, this time by Eagon’s niece who wants to know about the weather in a certain sector. Shyly, he answers then quickly finished his work. Sparks calls him and asks him to bring his reports to him, as well as informing him that Roberts and Browns were sent Outside for repair work. Sparks makes fun of Isobar’s bagpipes. In Sparks’ office, Isobar delivers his work then waits for him to make the call. Once he’s delivered the report, Sparks asks the Earthman to turn his microphone around. As he does so, the video changes from his face to that of Earth, beautiful trees, and green grass. Isobar is grateful to Sparks and tells him so. They talk about Isobar’s homesickness until Colonel Eagon walks in to hear them discussing the Outisde. He quickly shuts it down and informs Isobar that it is now forbidden for him to play his bagpipe, due to the horrendous noise. Beyond frustrated, Isobar runs back to his rooms, grabs his bagpipes, and sneaks his way Outside by tricking the patrolman. Once he’s breathing in the thin air, he calms down and makes his way two miles out from the gate. Suddenly, he hears the sound of a gun and is brought back to reality. Roberts and Brown rush into view, both injured but grateful to see him, thinking he answered their distress call. However, he didn’t bring an armored tank with him, only a pair of bagpipes. A dozen Granniebacks run behind them, so Isobar helps Roberts and Brown climb a tree to escape. The Grannies are unable to climb trees due to their significant size, but they can tear it down. As they pull and heave on the trunk, Isobar has the idea to play his bagpipes so the Dome will hear it and come looking for them. Roberts thinks it’s a good idea, so he begins to play, and slowly the Grannies all relax and lay down on the ground. They’re all amazed, but when Isobar stops playing, one of the Grannies starts to move again. He plays his entire repertoire and more before the armored tank arrives. The men from the dome reveal that the Grannies are dead, and the sound of the bagpipes must be what killed them. Isobar saved the team. "
"<s>   TROUBLE ON TYCHO     By NELSON S. BOND     Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of     the Moon Station's existence. But there came     the day when his comrades found that the worth     of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories March 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.     Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.     The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.     Report ready, Jones?     Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get      anything     right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—     Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all.     That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?     It      was all     , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed:      Cond. ofObs.     He noted the proper figures under the headings      Sun Spots     :      MaxFreq.     —      Min. Freq.     ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.     This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.           Weather forecast for Terra     , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.     The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.     O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!     I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice.     Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.     Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped.       You     , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—     The Dome Commander's niece giggled.     That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice.     It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.     That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.     Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work.     South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.  <doc-sep>   INNOCENT AT LARGE     By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course       he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared       to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble!        The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips.     After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important.     She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you.     Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage?       Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight.     I'll say you do! With a Martian!  <doc-sep>   My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  <doc-sep></s>","The bagpipes are Isobar’s one relief and a reminder of home. Isobar Jones hates his new job and position on Luna III and plays the bagpipes as a form of therapy. When they are taken away from him, he quickly revolts and rushes Outside to play once more. Though the bagpipes are initially only significant to Isobar, they quickly become the savior of the whole story. After Roberts and Brown run into Isobar, followed by Grannies, they climb a tree and hope for the best. Isobar plays the bagpipes as a way to alert those in the dome that they are outside, seeing as the air conditioning valve was near. However, as it turns out, the Grannies are able to hear, and the sound of the bagpipes slowly but surely killed them. The bagpipes saved Isobar’s life in multiple ways, as well as that of Roberts and Brown. They also proved to be a scientific breakthrough, as they are the only thing to ever kill a Grannie. "
"<s>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?     Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think—     It says, stated Eagan deliberately, '      In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander     ,' Thatmeans you, Jones!     But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—     But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure.     He suddenly seemed to gain stature.     No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement.     But— said Isobar.     No!     Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom—     Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it—     Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies?     Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe.     Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser.     All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:     They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside—     No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely,      no     ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon!     He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.     Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails—     But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity.     Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh—      fiddlesticks     !      II     And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.     Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly.     It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar.     Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to—     Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:      weltschmertz     . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold.     It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery....     You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons?     Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try      anything     to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now?     Below, I guess. In his quarters.     Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness.     But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.     Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit.     Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.     So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll      see     about that!     And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge      impervite     gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside.     On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.     Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety.     Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting.     Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.     Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?     Isobar's eyebrows arched.     You mean you haven't been notified?     Notified of      what     ?     Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?     I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe?     And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you.     We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like.     I will, promised Isobar, don't worry.  <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of      Lady of the Green Flames     ,      Lady of the Runaway Planet     ,      Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast     , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person.     Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of      Interstellar Voice     on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo.     What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.     Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of      Interstellar Voice     . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.     Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.     What's the Baldric? I had asked.     Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.     Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?     I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.     However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on.     What do you mean?     Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.     There are two companies here, he continued,       Interstellar Voice     and      Larynx Incorporated     . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.     There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble.     What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.  <doc-sep>For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming.     My last book,      Death In The Atom     , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn....     Who? I interrupted.     An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty.     The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly.     I shook my head. Some new kind of ...     It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The      Alpha     rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the      Gamma     rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of      Beta     or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons.     When any form of life is exposed to these      Gamma     rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug.     I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word.     Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life.     The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed.     Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor.     To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames!     If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what?     So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble.     Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth.     I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action.     Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think.     I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe?     She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that?     I shrugged.     The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in.     The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in.     And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it      en masse     .     If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger.     Let's get out of here, I said, getting up.       Zinnng-whack!       All right!     On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly.     A heat ray!     Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud.     An instant later we were plunging through the dark night.  <doc-sep></s>","Granitebacks are huge creatures that live on Luna III. Their immense size, hulking form, and impenetrable body make them practically indestructible. As of the beginning of this story, no Grannie had ever been killed. It was also believed that they were unable to hear, lacking ear canals, and potentially intelligence. Their exoskeleton or carapace was impenetrable, even harder than diamond or steel. Each weapon the Earthman devised to use against the Grannies failed. However, at the end of the story, it’s revealed that Grannies can, in fact, hear and are deeply affected by the sounds of the bagpipe. Isobar’s playing kills them all within 10 minutes and allows him and his companions to escape safe and sound. "
"<s>   TROUBLE ON TYCHO     By NELSON S. BOND     Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of     the Moon Station's existence. But there came     the day when his comrades found that the worth     of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories March 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.     Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.     The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.     Report ready, Jones?     Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get      anything     right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—     Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all.     That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?     It      was all     , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed:      Cond. ofObs.     He noted the proper figures under the headings      Sun Spots     :      MaxFreq.     —      Min. Freq.     ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.     This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.           Weather forecast for Terra     , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.     The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.     O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!     I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice.     Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.     Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped.       You     , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—     The Dome Commander's niece giggled.     That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice.     It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.     That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.     Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work.     South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.  <doc-sep>   My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of      Lady of the Green Flames     ,      Lady of the Runaway Planet     ,      Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast     , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person.     Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of      Interstellar Voice     on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo.     What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.     Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of      Interstellar Voice     . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.     Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.     What's the Baldric? I had asked.     Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.     Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?     I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.     However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on.     What do you mean?     Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.     There are two companies here, he continued,       Interstellar Voice     and      Larynx Incorporated     . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.     There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble.     What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.  <doc-sep></s>","Trouble on Tycho takes place on Luna III, a new frontier for space technology. The planet itself is lush and green, with a beautiful network of trees and greenery. However, it is inhabited by Granitebacks, an unbeatable foe known to kill any Earthmen who dare cross their path. So, the new inhabitants of Luna III built a giant dome to keep themselves safe from the Grannies, at least until they devised a way to beat them. The dome allows its residents to see out but makes it very difficult for them to escape. The inhabitants are there to provide Earth with news from space as well as other meteorological forecasts. The dome has air-conditioning and thick glass walls, so there’s no fresh air or real sunlight, only the meager, filtered kind. "
"<s>   TROUBLE ON TYCHO     By NELSON S. BOND     Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of     the Moon Station's existence. But there came     the day when his comrades found that the worth     of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories March 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—andIsobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.     Hummm? he said absent-mindedly.     The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commanderappeared.     Report ready, Jones?     Almost, acknowledged Isobar gloomily. It prob'ly ain't right,though. How anybody can be expected to get      anything     right on thisdagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—     Send it up, interrupted Colonel Eagan, as soon as you can. Sparks ismaking Terra contact now. That is all.     That ain't all! declared Isobar indignantly. How about my bag—?     It      was all     , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talkingto himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, Nuts! and returned tohis duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word Clear which,six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed:      Cond. ofObs.     He noted the proper figures under the headings      Sun Spots     :      MaxFreq.     —      Min. Freq.     ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and redink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily worksheet.     This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer,frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, andbegan writing.           Weather forecast for Terra     , he wrote, his pen making scratchingsounds.     The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answeredwithout looking.     O.Q., he said wearily. O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a coupleo' minutes. Keep your pants on!     I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar? queried a mild voice.     Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. Heblinked nervously.     Oh, jumpin' jimminy! he gulped.       You     , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me!I didn't realize—     The Dome Commander's niece giggled.     That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weatherin Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki,but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice.     It is, promised Isobar. It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally.Fine sunshiny weather. You can go.     That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar.     Don't mention it, ma'am, said Isobar, and returned to his work.     South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined themeteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of hisjob. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he sawhimself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrainrendered possible.  <doc-sep>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?     Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think—     It says, stated Eagan deliberately, '      In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander     ,' Thatmeans you, Jones!     But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—     But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure.     He suddenly seemed to gain stature.     No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement.     But— said Isobar.     No!     Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom—     Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it—     Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies?     Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe.     Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser.     All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:     They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside—     No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely,      no     ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon!     He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.     Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails—     But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity.     Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh—      fiddlesticks     !      II     And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.     Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly.     It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar.     Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to—     Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:      weltschmertz     . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold.     It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery....     You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons?     Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try      anything     to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now?     Below, I guess. In his quarters.     Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness.     But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.     Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit.     Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.     So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll      see     about that!     And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge      impervite     gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside.     On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.     Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety.     Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting.     Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.     Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?     Isobar's eyebrows arched.     You mean you haven't been notified?     Notified of      what     ?     Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?     I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe?     And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you.     We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like.     I will, promised Isobar, don't worry.  <doc-sep>Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report,entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, anddictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:     That is all, he concluded.     O.Q., verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, proddedRiley's shoulder.     Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!     Oh, cut jets, will you? snapped Sparks. The Terra operator lookedstartled.     How's that? I didn't say a word—     Don't be a dope, said Sparks, you dope! I wasn't talking to you.I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do mea favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out awindow?     What? Why—why, yes, but—     Without buts, said Sparks grumpily. Yours not to reason why; yoursbut to do or don't. Will you do it?     Well, sure. But I don't understand— The silver platter which hadmirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled theinconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spunbriefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthlylandscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... greentrees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ...people....     Enough? asked Sparks.     Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly henodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the otherradioman, O.Q., pal, he said. Cut!     Cut! agreed the other. The plate blanked out.     Thanks, Sparks, said Isobar.     Nothing, shrugged Riley       He twisted     the mike; not me. But—how comeyou always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open,Jonesy? Homesick?     Sort of, admitted Isobar guiltily.     Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another sixmonths at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd onlymake you feel worse to see Earth.     It ain't Earth I'm homesick for, explained Isobar. It's—well, it'sthe things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers andtrees.     Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.     We've got      them     right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window,Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest,greenest little valley you ever saw.     I know, complained Isobar. And that's what makes it even worse. Allthat pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go outin it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—     To, interrupted a crisp voice, what?     Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome CommanderEagan. He squirmed.     N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—     I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir!It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases ofabsolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts togo, for example—     Any word from them yet, sir? asked Sparks eagerly.     Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones!Where are      you     going?     Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir.     That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?     Isobar said stubbornly, Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for awhile—     I thought that, too. And with      what     , pray, Jones?     With the only dratted thing, said Isobar, suddenly petulant, thatgives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe.  <doc-sep></s>","Isobar Jones, real name Horatio, has been living on Luna III for six long months now. Working as a meteorologist for Earth and radio operator, he spends his days locked in the Experimental Dome of Luna meant to protect them from the Grannies, the indestructible creatures in the Outside. His only relief comes from playing his bagpipes, but his weariness, homesickness, and blues were catching up to him. After sending out his forecasts to Earth, Isobar reveals his deep desire to escape the dome and venture Outside. Caught by Colonel Eagon, he is punished by a new commandment stating that no musical instrument can be played as it disturbs the rest of the dome. An ardent player of the bagpipes, he is heartily disappointed and upset by the news. His weariness or weltschmertz as Dr. Loesch called it makes Isobar take his bagpipes Outside the dome so he can play in peace. He tricks the junior station manning the door and slips out once he’s out of sight. After walking for a long time through the beautiful scenery, he hears the sound of a gun firing. Knowing what this means, fear quickly strikes deep inside him. Roberts and Brown come towards him, followed by a dozen Grannies. Isobar helps them climb a tree while explaining that he doesn’t actually have the armored tank they called for. Once there, he explains his idea to them about playing his bagpipes so that the Dome would hear them and come to their rescue. The air conditioning valve was nearby, so the sound would carry. As he begins to play, the Grannies fall to the ground and remain there. Supposedly resting, Isobar keeps playing until backup arrives. They are shocked to find that Isobar’s playing didn’t just put the Grannies to sleep, it actually killed them. Isobar made a huge scientific discovery and rescued his companions. "
"<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  <doc-sep>        He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas  <doc-sep>From the entrance of      TheSpace Room     came a thumpingand a grating and a banging. Suddenly,sweeping across the dancefloor like a cold wind, was a bassfiddle, an enormous black monstrosity,a refugee from a pawnbroker'sattic. It was queerly shaped. It wastoo tall, too wide. It was more likea monstrous, midnight-black hour-glassthan a bass.     The fiddle was not unaccompaniedas I'd first imagined. Behindit, streaking over the floor in awaltz of agony, was a little guy, ananimated matchstick with a flat,broad face that seemed to havebeen compressed in a vice. His sandcoloredmop of hair reminded meof a field of dry grass, the longstrands forming loops that flankedthe sides of his face.     His pale blue eyes were watery,like twin pools of fog. His tightfittingsuit, as black as the bass,was something off a park bench. Itwas impossible to guess his age. Hecould have been anywhere betweentwenty and forty.     The bass thumped down uponthe bandstand.     Hello, he puffed. I'm JohnSmith, from the Marsport union.He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as ifanxious to conclude the routine ofintroductions. I'm sorry I'm late,but I was working on my plan.     A moment's silence.     Your plan? I echoed at last.     How to get back home, hesnapped as if I should have knownit already.     Hummm, I thought.     My gaze turned to the dancefloor. Goon-Face had his eyes onus, and they were as cold as six Indiansgoing South.     We'll talk about your plan atintermission, I said, shivering.Now, we'd better start playing.John, do you know      On An AsteroidWith You     ?     I know      everything     , said JohnSmith.     I turned to my piano with ashudder. I didn't dare look at thathorrible fiddle again. I didn't darethink what kind of soul-chillingtones might emerge from its ancientdepths.     And I didn't dare look again atthe second monstrosity, the onenamed John Smith. I closed myeyes and plunged into a four-barintro.     Hammer-Head joined in onvibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet,and then—     My eyes burst open. A shivercoursed down my spine like giganticmice feet.     The tones that surged from thatmonstrous bass were ecstatic. Theywere out of a jazzman's Heaven.They were great rolling clouds thatseemed to envelop the entire universewith their vibrance. Theyheld a depth and a volume and arichness that were astounding, thatwere like no others I'd ever heard.     First they went      Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom     ,and then,      boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom     ,just like the tones of all bassfiddles.     But there was something else, too.There were overtones, so that Johnwasn't just playing a single note,but a whole chord with each beat.And the fullness, the depth of thoseincredible chords actually set myblood tingling. I could      feel     thetingling just as one can feel the vibrationof a plucked guitar string.     I glanced at the cash customers.They looked like weary warriorsgetting their first glimpse of Valhalla.Gap-jawed and wide-eyed,they seemed in a kind of ecstatichypnosis. Even the silent, bland-facedMartians stopped sippingtheir wine-syrup and nodded theirdark heads in time with the rhythm.     I looked at The Eye. The transformationof his gaunt featureswas miraculous. Shadows of gloomdissolved and were replaced bya black-toothed, crescent-shapedsmile of delight. His eyes shone likethose of a kid seeing Santa Claus.     We finished      On An Asteroid WithYou     , modulated into      Sweet Sallyfrom Saturn     and finished with      Tighten Your Lips on Titan     .     We waited for the applause ofthe Earth people and the shrillingof the Martians to die down. ThenI turned to John and his fiddle.     If I didn't hear it, I gasped,I wouldn't believe it!     And the fiddle's so old, too!added Hammer-Head who, althoughsober, seemed quite drunk.     Old? said John Smith. Ofcourse it's old. It's over five thousandyears old. I was lucky to findit in a pawnshop. Only it's not afiddle but a      Zloomph     . This is theonly one in existence. He pattedthe thing tenderly. I tried the holein it but it isn't the right one.     I wondered what the hell he wastalking about. I studied the black,mirror-like wood. The aperture inthe vesonator was like that of anybass fiddle.     Isn't right for what? I had toask.     He turned his sad eyes to me.For going home, he said.     Hummm, I thought.  <doc-sep></s>","The setting is primarily at an event space called the Space Room. Jimmie Stanley and his band perform there. They are sitting in the cocktail lounge waiting for the replacement for their fiddle player to arrive. Their boss, Ke-teeli, is upset that the fiddle player is not yet there. He is threatening to not let them play at the venue anymore. Eventually, their replacement player arrives at the venue. However, Jimmie has serious doubts that man will be able to play well because his instrument does not look like a fiddle and he appears disheveled. When the band does play with the new member, John Smith, he and his instrument – the Zloomph – sounds amazing. The audience shows a good reception as does the boss. Jimmie wants John to join the band, but John has other concerns. He continuously mentions holes and seems obsessed over finding holes. Eventually, Jimmie learns why John is interested in holes. John claims that he accidentally went through a hole and left his time dimension. He is in search of holes in order to find his original time dimension. Jimmie attempts to play along with John’s claims and even offers to let John stay at his apartment in order to entice him to join the band. John continues to drink beer and talk about holes during the story. One night, Jimmie returns back to his apartment and finds John drunk on the floor. He takes John, and the instrument, outside to calm John down. When they go outside, John and his instrument fall through a hole and are not seen again. Jimmie and the rest of the band assume that John managed to find his way back to his own time zone.  "
"<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  <doc-sep>        He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas  <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider:      What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what?       Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life.     It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment.     John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying.     John! I cried. You're drunk!     His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared!     But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory.     His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter.     Then what is it, John?     It's my body. It's—     Yes, what about your body?Are you sick?     His face was white with terror.No, my—      my body's full of holes     .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is?     He rose and staggered to his      Zloomph     , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation.     I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now.     We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the      Zloomph     , and I.     I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the      Zloomph     —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street.     Then—he was gone.     John just slipped out of my grasp—      Zloomph     and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit.     —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it.     John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed....  <doc-sep></s>","John Smith is interested in holes because he wants to go back to his own time dimension. He explains to Jimmie that his colleagues did not believe that before the tapes, instruments that played music existed. He further details that on his way back to the University with his instrument, the Zloomph, he fell through a hole and out of his own time dimension. He states that a researcher is to blame for not securing a force field over the hole to prevent someone from falling through. John Smith is interested in holes because he believes that any hole could potentially bring him back to his own time dimension so that he can prove that this theory was credit. He does not want people to think that he was wrong. "
"<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  <doc-sep>        He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas  <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider:      What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what?       Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life.     It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment.     John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying.     John! I cried. You're drunk!     His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared!     But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory.     His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter.     Then what is it, John?     It's my body. It's—     Yes, what about your body?Are you sick?     His face was white with terror.No, my—      my body's full of holes     .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is?     He rose and staggered to his      Zloomph     , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation.     I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now.     We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the      Zloomph     , and I.     I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the      Zloomph     —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street.     Then—he was gone.     John just slipped out of my grasp—      Zloomph     and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit.     —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it.     John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed....  <doc-sep></s>","The Goon has many names and is also referred to as Ke-teeli and The Face. Ke-teeli is the boss of the three current members of the band, one member is out because he is injured. Ke-teeli owns an establishment that the band performs at. However, Ke-teeli repeatedly expresses his frustration and distaste over the band’s music. Jimmie Stanley believes that Ke-teeli is really more unhappy with the lack of money that his establishment, The Space Room, is earning. When John Smith joins the band with his Zloomph instrument, The Goon seems to respond well. More cash is flowing into the business as the audience agrees with the music. However, The Goon will not let the bandmates sign a contract with him for their unemployment unless they can guarantee that John Smith and his Zloomph instrument will join them. "
"<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider:      What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what?       Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life.     It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment.     John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying.     John! I cried. You're drunk!     His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared!     But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory.     His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter.     Then what is it, John?     It's my body. It's—     Yes, what about your body?Are you sick?     His face was white with terror.No, my—      my body's full of holes     .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is?     He rose and staggered to his      Zloomph     , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation.     I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now.     We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the      Zloomph     , and I.     I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the      Zloomph     —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street.     Then—he was gone.     John just slipped out of my grasp—      Zloomph     and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit.     —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it.     John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed....  <doc-sep>        He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas  <doc-sep></s>","Jimmie’s friend, Hammer-Head talks about the black puts of Neptune as a place that he and the rest of the band will likely go to if they do not secure a contract with The Goon. The black pits of Neptune is a place for musicians that are past their prime. The Goon does not enjoy the band’s music and threatens to not let them play at his establishment anymore. However, The Goon likes the music when John Smith plays with the band and especially the reception of the audience when John Smith is playing with the band. The Goon says that he will give the band a contract as long as John Smith agrees to join with his Zloomph. It is important to Jimmie for John to continue playing with the band so that they can get an employment contract from The Goon. "
"<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  <doc-sep>        He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straightfrom heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but hewas money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was     —whoops!...       The Holes and John Smith     By Edward W. Ludwig       Illustration by Kelly Freas  <doc-sep>All night the thought creptthrough my brain like a teasingspider:      What can we do to makehim stay? What can we tell him?What, what, what?       Unable to sleep the next morning,I left John to his snoring andwent for an aspirin and black coffee.All the possible schemes weredrumming through my mind: findingan Earth blonde to captureJohn's interest, having him electro-hypnotized,breaking his leg, forginga letter from this mythical universitytelling him his theory wasproved valid and for him to takea nice long vacation now. He wasa screwball about holes and forcefields and dimensional worlds butfor that music of his I'd baby himthe rest of his life.     It was early afternoon when Itrudged back to my apartment.     John was squatting on the livingroom floor, surrounded by a forestof empty beer bottles. His eyes werebulging, his hair was even wilderthan usual, and he was swaying.     John! I cried. You're drunk!     His watery eyes squinted at me.No, not drunk. Just scared. I'mawful scared!     But you mustn't be scared. Thatreporter was just stupid. We'll helpyou with your theory.     His body trembled. No, it isn'tthat. It isn't the reporter.     Then what is it, John?     It's my body. It's—     Yes, what about your body?Are you sick?     His face was white with terror.No, my—      my body's full of holes     .Suppose it's one of those holes!How will I get back if it is?     He rose and staggered to his      Zloomph     , clutching it as though itwere somehow a source of strengthand consolation.     I patted him gingerly on the arm.Now John. You've just had toomuch beer, that's all. Let's go outand get some air and some strongblack coffee. C'mon now.     We staggered out into the morningdarkness, the three of us. John,the      Zloomph     , and I.     I was hanging on to him tryingto see around and over and evenunder the      Zloomph     —steering by asort of radar-like sixth sense. Thestreet lights on Marsport are prettydim compared to Earthside. Ididn't see the open manhole thatthe workmen had figured would beall right at that time of night. Itgets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M.of a Martian morning, and Iguess the men were warming upwith a little nip at the bar acrossthe street.     Then—he was gone.     John just slipped out of my grasp—      Zloomph     and all—and was gone—completelyand irrevocably gone.I even risked a broken neck andjumped in the manhole after him.Nothing—nothing but the smell ofozone and an echo bouncing crazilyoff the walls of the conduit.     —is it.—is it.—is it.—is it.     John Smith was gone, so utterlyand completely and tragically goneit was as if he'd never existed....  <doc-sep></s>","John Smith is a human from Earth that is described as a very shot guy with a broad face and light blue eyes. He works with the Marsport union. When he enters the Space Room establishment, he is dressed in a tight black suit and is carrying his instrument, the Zloomph. John states that the Zloomph that he carries is an instrument that is over five thousand years old. He excitedly states that he found it in a pawn shop and that it’s the only one in existence. The Zloomph itself is described as being incredibly large, and very black. The tones that emitted from it were jazz-like and received well by the band, the audience, and The Goon. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking.     It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto.     He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from      Mars V     , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.     The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally.     Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal.     He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal.     You loved her?     Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her.     He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it.     '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....'     He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back.     They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?     Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that.     They entered the city.   <doc-sep>Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar.     A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.     You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you.     Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.     It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you?     I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned.     Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.     Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna.     And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon.     To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.     But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also.     The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been.     So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.     The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed.     Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.  <doc-sep></s>","Michael and Mary were sent to look for another planet for humans to live on. After looking for two thousand years, their Milky Way expedition had failed to find an alternative, but humans were desperate because Earth was scorched and not easily liveable. The President is taken aback by the news, and his council looked at some footage from the expedition, watching ships explode and seeing dangerous atmospheres that would not sustain human life. A thousand people were grown from cultured scar tissue only to die violent deaths, so people yelled for the video to be shut off. President Davis explains that violent death is an unfamiliar thing to the contemporary humans, so he decided to lie to the public about the expedition details. Michael had promised Mary they would stay on Earth, but the government lying to the public was hard--Mary suggests that Michael can still leave, but he doesn't want to go without her, and she wants to stay on the planet she came from, even if it means a difficult life on Earth. They remember their lockets, that give them the option of a quick death in case they had gotten trapped in a dangerous situation, but they don't want to threaten to kill themselves either. Mary admits she's pregnant, which is surprising because humans in this day are cultured from scar tissue. With heavy hearts, they looked out onto the city where the large TV screens were promising the public an idyllic planet that would one day be recovered again, through a different mission, which is disheartening because their own mission had turned into a lie. They went back into the council chambers and sat again. Michael and Mary were told they'd be kept in solitary confinement to protect the public, which was ironic since Mary wanted to stay on Earth to avoid loneliness. Michael reminds the President of the lockets he and his wife have, and there is panic--what is there to do? The President demanded they hand over the lockets, but Michael and Mary stay strong and ask to be let outside of the city's protective barrier so that they can experience a natural death. The President conceded, so that he didn't have to look at them anymore, and gave them the car that they asked for. They have supplies to last a year, but don't know where to go or what to do. They get out of their car and take their shoes off to walk around, experiencing quiet for the first time in memory. To their surprise, they found three blades of grass, and run to a hill to see other patches of green in the area, some animals, and a small spring. They have hope: they can build a house, have a child, and eventually they can show the ones in the city that there is hope much closer than they realized. "
"<s>It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road.     Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation.     If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us?     I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison.     She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road.     How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me?     All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself.     Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland?     He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness.     They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust.     I'm getting out, she said.     I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When?     They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill.     The air smells clean, he said.     The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it.     Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback.     Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop.     He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream?     I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream.     He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet.     I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities.     He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly:     Mary!     She stopped, whirling around.     He was staring down at her feet.     She followed his gaze.     It's grass! He bent down. Three blades.     She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades.     They're new, he said.     They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject.     He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center.     Oh!     Her hand found his.     They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside.     Mary knelt down and drank from the spring.     It's so cool. It must come from deep down.     It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down.     We can      live     here, Michael!     Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child.     Yes! she said. Oh yes!     And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them.     They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own.     There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house.     ... THE END   <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders.     The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet.     The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one.     Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you      are     heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society.     He paused. Is there anything you wish to say?     Yes, there is.     Proceed.     Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat.     Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure.     The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks.     We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces.     If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born.     Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were      born     and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see.     The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still.     Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle.     Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them.     Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death.     Stop! he said quietly.     They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back.     If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you.     The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror.     I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty!     We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves.     You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you.     We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now!     The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want?     Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death.     The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here....      Let     them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them....     There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached.     Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You      will     die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again.     We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies.     A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes.     You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains.     There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly!     Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor.  <doc-sep>They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen:     This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right.     Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie.     Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands.     What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room.     I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again.     Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now.     And then there was the sound of the door opening.     They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers.  <doc-sep></s>","Michael and Mary are two humans who were sent on an expedition to find a habitable planet elsewhere in the solar system after humans destroyed their own planet during the Atomic Wars, and continued to drive it into the ground through their own greed for resources. Three thousand years after the Wars, the expedition was sent out (so five thousand years have passed in total since the Wars). Michael and Mary are the only two people who survived, and their return was two thousand years after they left Earth. They are married, though contemporary relationships do not involve much physical touching as compared to the twenty-first century, in a few ways. When Michael hugs Mary to comfort her, he mentions that it is a custom of the past. In their society, it is illegal to have children through sexual intercourse, so it is a surprise at the end of the story when Mary admits that she might be pregnant. They have endured a lot together on their mission in outer space, and have had to watch a lot of people die. It was very isolating to be in space, living on a ship, and this is part of their other major discussion: what to do when their mission was over. Michael had some desire to stay in space and not return to the scorched planet. However, Mary wanted to return to Earth, and the two of them wanted to stay together no matter what. This turned out to work in their favor: staying on Earth but wanting to stay alive is what gave them the opportunity to find the patches of life they found at the end of the story. "
"<s>It was night. The city had been lost beyond the dead mounds of Earththat rolled away behind them, like a thousand ancient tombs. Theground car sat still on a crumbling road.     Looking up through the car's driving blister, they saw the stars sunkinto the blue black ocean of space; saw the path of the Milky Wayalong which they had rushed, while they had been searching franticallyfor the place of salvation.     If any one of the other couples had made it back, said Mary, do youthink they'd be with us?     I think they'd either be with us, he said, or out in spaceagain—or in prison.     She stared ahead along the beam of headlight that stabbed out into thenight over the decaying road.     How sorry are you, she said quietly, coming with me?     All I know is, if I were out in space for long without you, I'd killmyself.     Are we going to die out here, Michael? she said, gesturing towardthe wall of night that stood at the end of the headlight, with theland?     He turned from her, frowning, and drove the ground car forward,watching the headlights push back the darkness.     They followed the crumbling highway all night until light crept acrossthe bald and cracked hills. The morning sun looked down upon thedesolation ten feet above the horizon when the car stopped. They satfor a long time then, looking out upon the Earth's parched andinflamed skin. In the distance a wall of mountains rose like a greatpile of bleached bones. Close ahead the rolling plains were motionlesswaves of dead Earth with a slight breeze stirring up little swirls ofdust.     I'm getting out, she said.     I haven't the slightest idea how much farther to go, or why, saidMichael shrugging. It's all the same. Dirt and hills and mountainsand sun and dust. It's really not much different from being out inspace. We live in the car just like in a space ship. We've enoughconcentrated supplies to last for a year. How far do we go? Why?When?     They stepped upon the Earth and felt the warmth of the sun andstrolled toward the top of the hill.     The air smells clean, he said.     The ground feels good. I think I'll take off my shoes. She did.Take off your boots, Michael. Try it.     Wearily he pulled off his boots, stood in his bare feet. It takes meback.     Yes, she said and began walking toward the hilltop.     He followed, his boots slung around his neck. There was a roadsomewhere, with the dust between my toes. Or was it a dream?     I guess when the past is old enough, she said, it becomes a dream.     He watched her footprints in the dust. God, listen to the quiet.     I can't seem to remember so much quiet around me. There's always beenthe sound of a space ship, or the pumps back in the cities.     He did not answer but continued to watch her footsteps and to feel thedust squishing up between his toes. Then suddenly:     Mary!     She stopped, whirling around.     He was staring down at her feet.     She followed his gaze.     It's grass! He bent down. Three blades.     She knelt beside him. They touched the green blades.     They're new, he said.     They stared, like religious devotees concentrating upon some sacredobject.     He rose, pulling her up with him. They hurried to the top of the hilland stood very still, looking down into a valley. There were tinypatches of green and little trees sprouting, and here and there, apale flower. The green was in a cluster, in the center of the valleyand there was a tiny glint of sunlight in its center.     Oh!     Her hand found his.     They ran down the gentle slope, feeling the patches of green touchtheir feet, smelling a new freshness in the air. And coming to thelittle spring, they stood beside it and watched the crystal water thattrickled along the valley floor and lost itself around a bend. Theysaw a furry, little animal scurry away and heard the twitter of a birdand saw it resting on a slim, bending branch. They heard the buzz of abee, saw it light on a pale flower at their feet and work at thesweetness inside.     Mary knelt down and drank from the spring.     It's so cool. It must come from deep down.     It does, he said. There were tears in his eyes and a tightness inhis throat. From deep down.     We can      live     here, Michael!     Slowly he looked all around until his sight stopped at the bottom of ahill. We'll build our house just beyond those rocks. We'll dig andplant and you'll have the child.     Yes! she said. Oh yes!     And the ones back in the city will know the Earth again. Sometimewe'll lead them back here and show them the Earth is coming alive. Hepaused. By following what we had to do for ourselves, we've found away to save them.     They remained kneeling in the silence beside the pool for a long time.They felt the sun on their backs and looked into the clean depth ofthe water deeply aware of the new life breathing all around them andof themselves absorbing it, and at the same time giving back to it thelife that was their own.     There was only this quiet and breathing and warmth until Michael stoodand picked up a rock and walked toward the base of the hill where hehad decided to build the house.     ... THE END   <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders.     The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet.     The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one.     Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you      are     heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society.     He paused. Is there anything you wish to say?     Yes, there is.     Proceed.     Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat.     Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure.     The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks.     We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces.     If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born.     Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were      born     and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see.     The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still.     Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle.     Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them.     Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death.     Stop! he said quietly.     They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back.     If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you.     The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror.     I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty!     We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves.     You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you.     We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now!     The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want?     Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death.     The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here....      Let     them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them....     There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached.     Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You      will     die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again.     We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies.     A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes.     You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains.     There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly!     Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor.  <doc-sep>They both saw it at the same time. And they watched, without speaking,both knowing what was in the other's mind and heart. They watched thegiant four dimensional screens all through the city. A green, lushplanet showed bright and clear on them and there were ships standingamong the trees and men walking through the grass, that moved gentlylike the swells on a calm ocean, while into their minds came thethoughts projected from the screen:     This will be your new home. It was found and then lost. But anotherexpedition will be sent out to find it again. Be of good hope.Everything will be all right.     Michael turned from the window. So there's our evidence. Two thousandyears. All the others killed getting it. And with a simple twist, itbecomes a lie.     Mary sat down and buried her face in her hands.     What a terrible failure there's been here, said Michael. Theneglect and destruction of a whole planet. It's like a family lettingtheir home decay all around them, and living in smaller and smallerrooms of it, until at last the rooms are all gone, and since theycan't find another home, they all die in the ruins of the last room.     I can't face dying, Mary said quietly, squeezed in with all thesepeople, in this tomb they've made around the seas. I want to have theopen sky and the quiet away from those awful pounding pumps when Idie. I want the spread of the Earth all around and the clean air. Iwant to be a real part of the Earth again.     Michael barely nodded in agreement. He was standing very still now.     And then there was the sound of the door opening.     They both rose, like mourners at a funeral, and went into the councilchambers.  <doc-sep></s>","Michael and Mary were on a mission to find a habitable planet after the Atomic Wars decimated Earth, making it barely habitable. It was a long journey, and the two have been gone from Earth for a long time--they had undergone reincarnation for two thousand years. However, nobody else on the expedition made it--all of the children who were created through the culturing of scar tissue died in various ways, including ships suffering violent explosions and being struck by rocks in space. This meant that a thousand other people died, and Mary wanted to keep living for the sake of these people that perished on the mission. They returned to Earth on their ship called the Milky Way with the bad news that none of the planets they encountered would have been able to sustain human life, and even if they had found one, the journey there would have been so dangerous that a vast majority of the people who attempted to travel there would never have made it alive."
"<s>Michael and Mary, both staring, saw, along the line of desks, theagonized faces, some staring like white stones, others hidden inclutching fingers, as though they had been confronted by a Medusa.There was the sound of heavy breathing that mixed with the throbbingof the pumps. The President held tightly to the edges of his desk toquiet his trembling.     There—there've been changes, he said, since you've been out inspace. There isn't a person on Earth who's seen a violent death forhundreds of years.     Michael faced him, frowning. I don't follow you.     Dying violently happened so seldom on Earth that, after a long time,the sight of it began to drive some people mad. And then one day a manwas struck by one of the ground cars and      everyone     who saw it wentinsane. Since then we've eliminated accidents, even the idea. Now, noone is aware that death by violence is even a possibility.     I'm sorry, said Michael, we've been so close to violent death forso long.... What you've seen is part of the proof you asked for.     What you showed us was a picture, said the President. If it hadbeen real, we'd all be insane by now. If it were shown to the peoplethere'd be mass hysteria.     But even if we'd found another habitable planet, getting to it wouldinvolve just what we've shown you. Maybe only a tenth of the peoplewho left Earth, or a hundredth, would ever reach a destination out inspace.     We couldn't tolerate such a possibility, said the Presidentgravely. We'd have to find a way around it.     The pumps throbbed like giant hearts all through the stillness in thecouncil chambers. The faces along the line of desks were smoothingout; the terror in them was fading away.     And yet the Earth is almost dead, said Michael quietly, and youcan't bring it back to life.     The sins of our past, Mr. Nelson, said the President. The Atomicwars five thousand years ago. And the greed. It was too late a longtime ago. That, of course, is why the expedition was sent out. And nowyou've come back to us with this terrible news. He looked around,slowly, then back to Michael. Can you give us any hope at all?     None.     Another expedition? To Andromeda perhaps? With you the leader?     Michael shook his head. We're finished with expeditions, Mr.President.     There were mutterings in the council, and hastily whisperedconsultations. Now they were watching the man and woman again.     We feel, said the President, it would be dangerous to allow you togo out among the people. They've been informed that your statementwasn't entirely true. This was necessary, to avoid a panic. The peoplesimply must not know the whole truth. He paused. Now we ask you tokeep in mind that whatever we decide about the two of you will be forthe good of the people.     Michael and Mary were silent.     You'll wait outside the council chambers, the President went on,until we have reached our decision.     As the man and woman were led away, the pumps beat in the stillness,and at the edge of the shrinking seas the salt thick waters were beingpulled into the distilleries, and from them into the tier upon tier ofartificial gardens that sat like giant bee hives all around theshoreline; and the mounds of salt glistening in the sunlight behindthe gardens were growing into mountains.  <doc-sep>He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily.       This might be a lucky break for me after all     , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit.      I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it.        IV     Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror.     Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you?     No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled.     It      is     a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret.     Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...?     Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be      his     wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve?     I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back.       Sure     , she thought,      I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills.     Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body.     You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he?     I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had!     Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one.  <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   <doc-sep></s>","In the earth of the future that is at the center of this story, the society has managed to reduce accidents so much that violent deaths do not happen. This happened because some people reacted with hysterics to witnessing death of this type, so efforts were made to avoid the issue entirely, which had been successful for the past few hundred years. President Davis did not want the public to hear any more details about the expedition after Michael and Mary first addressed everyone. He says that the only reason the public has not lost all sense after seeing some of the footage from the expedition is that it was visual media and stories, but not something people witnessed first-hand for themselves. However, he does not want to expose the people to the violent deaths that the people on the expedition suffered, so he claims that Michael and Mary did not tell the truth, in an effort to save face. The President considers this type of lying to be for the good of the people, who cannot handle the reality of the expedition. He also does not think that the people could handle the loss of hope for another planet to live on, which is why he plays the ad campaigns for a new expediton in a different solar system that aims to eventually find (or rediscover, in his words) another planet for humans to inhabit, perhaps in Andromeda. In this way, the President thinks it is better for his people to have false hope instead of no hope at all. The reader sees the irony in this at the end of the story when Michael and Mary find the patch of life that has started to re-establish itself outside of the boundaries of the city they ventured from. "
"<s>The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in.     She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked.     Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick.     I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital.     But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged.     Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?     Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out.     Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses.     That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney?     Nor a single postal worker.     Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for—     He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.     Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down.     What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico.     Writers?     Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit.     This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that.     Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley.     Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together.     What does it show?     Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit?     Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public.     Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit.     Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases.     And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head.     Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.     Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it.     The answer?     Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What—  <doc-sep>Again they sat in the thick chairs before the wall of desks with thefaces of the council looking across it like defenders.     The pumps were beating, beating all through the room and the quiet.     The President was standing. He faced Michael and Mary, and seemed toset himself as though to deliver a blow, or to receive one.     Michael and Mary, he said, his voice struggling against a tightness,we've considered a long time concerning what is to be done with youand the report you brought back to us from the galaxy. He tookanother swallow of water. To protect the sanity of the people, we'vechanged your report. We've also decided that the people must beprotected from the possibility of your spreading the truth, as you didat the landing field. So, for the good of the people, you'll beisolated. All comforts will be given you. After all, in a sense, you      are     heroes and martyrs. Your scar tissue will be cultured as it hasbeen in the past, and you will stay in solitary confinement until thetime when, perhaps, we can migrate to another planet. We feel thathope must not be destroyed. And so another expedition is being sentout. It may be that, in time, on another planet, you'll be able totake your place in our society.     He paused. Is there anything you wish to say?     Yes, there is.     Proceed.     Michael stared straight at the President. After a long moment, heraised his hand to the tiny locket at his throat.     Perhaps you remember, he said, the lockets given to every member ofthe expedition the night before we left. I still have mine. He raisedit. So does my wife. They were designed to kill the wearer instantlyand painlessly if he were ever faced with pain or a terror he couldn'tendure.     The President was standing again. A stir ran along the barricade ofdesks.     We can't endure the city, went on Michael, or its life and the waysof the people. He glanced along the line of staring faces.     If what I think you're about to say is true, said the President in ashaking voice, it would have been better if you'd never been born.     Let's face facts, Mr. President. We were      born     and haven'tdied—yet. A pause. And we can kill ourselves right here before youreyes. It'd be painless to us. We'd be unconscious. But there would behorrible convulsions and grimaces. Our bodies would be twisted andtorn. They'd thresh about. The deaths you saw in the picture happeneda long time ago, in outer space. You all went into hysterics at thesight of them. Our deaths now would be close and terrible to see.     The President staggered as though about to faint. There was a stirringand muttering and a jumping up along the desks. Voices cried out, inanger and fear. Arms waved and fists pounded. Hands clasped andunclasped and clawed at collars, and there was a pell mell rushingaround the President. They yelled at each other and clasped each otherby the shoulders, turned away and back again, and then suddenly becamevery still.     Now they began to step down from the raised line of desks, thePresident leading them, and came close to the man and woman, gatheringaround them in a wide half circle.     Michael and Mary were holding the lockets close to their throats. Thehalf circle of people, with the President at its center was movingcloser and closer. They were sweaty faces and red ones and dry whiteones and hands were raised to seize them.     Michael put his arm around Mary's waist. He felt the trembling in herbody and the waiting for death.     Stop! he said quietly.     They halted, in slight confusion, barely drawing back.     If you want to see us die—just come a step closer.... And rememberwhat'll happen to you.     The faces began turning to each other and there was an undertone ofmuttering and whispering. A ghastly thing.... Instant.... Nothing todo.... Space's broken their minds.... They'll do it.... Eyes'remad.... What can we do?... What?... The sweaty faces, the cold whiteones, the flushed hot ones: all began to turn to the President, whowas staring at the two before him like a man watching himself die in amirror.     I command you, he suddenly said, in a choked voice, to—to give methose—lockets! It's your—duty!     We've only one duty, Mr. President, said Michael sharply. Toourselves.     You're sick. Give yourselves over to us. We'll help you.     We've made our choice. We want an answer. Quickly! Now!     The President's body sagged. What—what is it you want?     Michael threw the words. To go beyond the force fields of the city.To go far out onto the Earth and live as long as we can, and then todie a natural death.     The half circle of faces turned to each other and muttered andwhispered again. In the name of God.... Let them go.... Contaminateus.... Like animals.... Get them out of here....      Let     them befinished.... Best for us all.... And them....     There was a turning to the President again and hands thrusting himforward to within one step of Michael and Mary, who were standingthere close together, as though attached.     Haltingly he said, Go. Please go. Out onto the Earth—to die. You      will     die. The Earth is dead out there. You'll never see the city oryour people again.     We want a ground car, said Michael. And supplies.     A ground car, repeated the President. And—supplies.... Yes.     You can give us an escort, if you want to, out beyond the first rangeof mountains.     There will be no escort, said the President firmly. No one has beenallowed to go out upon the Earth or to fly above it for many hundredsof years. We know it's there. That's enough. We couldn't bear thesight of it. He took a step back. And we can't bear the sight of youany longer. Go now. Quickly!     Michael and Mary did not let go of the lockets as they watched thehalf circle of faces move backward, staring, as though at corpses thatshould sink to the floor.  <doc-sep>  Transcriber's Note:     This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction June 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.         THE VALLEY       By Richard Stockham       Illustrated by Ed Emsh         If you can't find it countless millions of miles in space,come back to Earth. You might find it just on the other sideof the fence—where the grass is always greener.        The Ship dove into Earth's sea of atmosphere like a great, silverfish.     Inside the ship, a man and woman stood looking down at the expanse ofland that curved away to a growing horizon. They saw the yellow groundcracked like a dried skin; and the polished stone of the mountains andthe seas that were shrunken away in the dust. And they saw how thecity circled the sea, as a circle of men surround a water hole in adesert under a blazing sun.     The ship's radio cried out. You've made it! Thank God! You've madeit!     Another voice, shaking, said, President—Davis is—overwhelmed. Hecan't go on. On his behalf and on behalf of all the people—with ourhope that was almost dead, we greet you. A pause. Please come in!     The voice was silent. The air screamed against the hull of the ship.     I can't tell them, said the man.     Please come in! said the radio. Do you hear me?     The woman looked up at the man. You've got to Michael!     Two thousand years. From one end of the galaxy to the other. Not onegrain of dust we can live on. Just Earth. And it's burned to acinder.     A note of hysteria stabbed into the radio voice. Are you all right?Stand by! We're sending a rescue ship.     They've got a right to know what we've found, said the woman. Theysent us out. They've waited so long—.     He stared into space. It's hopeless. If we'd found another planetthey could live on, they'd do the same as they've done here.     He touched the tiny golden locket that hung around his neck. Rightnow, I could press this and scratch myself and the whole farce wouldbe over.     No. A thousand of us died. You've got to think of them.     We'll go back out into space, he said. It's clean out there. I'mtired. Two thousand years of reincarnation.     She spoke softly. We've been together for a long time. I've lovedyou. I've asked very little. But I need to stay on Earth. Please,Michael.     He looked at her for a moment. Then he flipped a switch. Milky Way toEarth. Never mind the rescue ship. We're all right. We're coming in.  <doc-sep></s>","Michael and Mary, who have both just returned from a long expedition in a spacecraft, each keep a small golden locket around their neck. They were given these when they left on their mission, as a sort of escape hatch: if they were ever caught in a dangerous situation where they would have to die painful deaths, they could scratch themselves with the locket and they would die a quick and painless death instead of suffering. This is the first hint we see at the society's growing avoidance of painful deaths. For the people on the expedition, they were a tool to be used in case of emergency for the sake of the person wearing them. In the context of the society on Earth, however, they were a tool to negotiate the terms of how Michael and Mary would live. They considered threatening using these lockets to kill themselves, which they eventually did in a discussion with the President and his council. After they used the lockets, although they would die painless deaths, it would look very painful to the witnesses as the bodies experienced shock, so President Davis didn't want his people to see this. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  <doc-sep>   Jack of No Trades     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday!        I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud.     Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder!     I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip.     I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis.     Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother.     Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev.     Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed.     Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me.     How else could I tell?     Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious.     If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands.     She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands.     I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either.  <doc-sep></s>","This story takes place in the year 2102 and centers around a family with powers, including telekenisis and teleportation. The narrator is Kevin, one of the sons: he is the only person in the family without powers, a psi-deficient, so he stays at home to take care of the house. The story starts at the breakfast table, where the father teleports in, the mother probes the others' thoughts, and there is grumbling about the goings-on in the household. Timothy, the youngest brother, senses turmoil in the family but is also the most hopeful--he figures that Kevin has a gift they just haven't discovered yet, which is encouraging to Kevin. After everyone else in the family leaves for their jobs, Kevin is left to think about his situation, so he goes for a long walk. Reading is his only other real source of entertainment; he doesn't have many friends because nobody wanted to play sports with someone without telepathic abilities. He couldn't explore space because other planets weren't habitable, so he wondered what would make him stand out. The reader learns that the psi powers were latent in humans and developed with exposure to nuclear energy. When he gets home from his walk, Kevin's entire family is there, processing some news. There are two inhabited planets in Alpha Centauri, and the aliens there might be preparing for war.  Kevin partly hoped there would be war for a change of pace, and his mom figured people should start learning first-aid, including Kevin. He had a benefit over his sister because he couldn't sense others' pain in the same way. He met a girl named Lucy in his first-aid class who he liked, and she was a low-grade telesensitive so he didn't have to worry about his thoughts being read. Once the aliens attacked, things got hard as Kevin had to face the injured people bought to his care. This was especially shocking because injury was not common in his world. This was where Kevin finally found his power: touching the injured people healed them almost instantly. It turned out he was the only human with this power, which was invaluable -- a hospital was even built just for Kevin to work in, where Lucy became his assistant. All at once, he became the most important human on the planet, but the humans had to hide this from their alien adversaries. Lucy was jealous of Kevin but also worried about what would happen to Kevin when the war ended, which it eventually did four months later. The story ends with Kevin returning home after the Vice President informed him that his services were no longer needed. "
"<s>I smiled at him gratefully; he was the only member of my family whoreally seemed to like me in spite of my handicap. It won't work, Tim.I know you're trying to be kind, but—     He's not saying it just to be kind, my mother put in. He means it.Not that I want to arouse false hopes, Kevin, she added with grimscrupulousness. Tim's awfully young yet and I wouldn't trust hisextracurricular prognostications too far.     Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling a feeble renewal of old hopes.After all, young or not, Tim was a hell of a good prognosticator; hewouldn't have risen so rapidly to the position he held in the WeatherBureau if he hadn't been pretty near tops in foreboding.     Mother smiled sadly at my thoughts, but I didn't let that discourageme. As Danny had said, she      knew     but she didn't really      understand     .Nobody, for all of his or her psi power, really understood me.  <doc-sep>   Jack of No Trades     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday!        I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud.     Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder!     I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip.     I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis.     Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother.     Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev.     Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed.     Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me.     How else could I tell?     Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious.     If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands.     She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands.     I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either.  <doc-sep>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet.     I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair.     You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast.     He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about?     The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand?     Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him.     The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him.     Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye.     I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out.     You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't—     Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either.     No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me.  <doc-sep></s>","Tim is Kevin's youngest brother, and works as a meteorologist for the Weather Bureau. His ability is that of prognostication, meaning he is able to predict certain things about the future. This includes positive and negative things. For instance, at the beginning of the story, he feels a sense of impending doom. At the same time, he is the only one who has a positive outlook on Kevin's situation: he suspects that Kevin has a power that hasn't been discovered or isn't well-understood yet, but the rest of the family (including Kevin himself) figure that he doesn't have any special abilities at all. This is particularly contrasted with Kevin's mother, who doesn't ever speak highly of Kevin. Tim's encouragement gives Kevin hope for his own future regularly, and it helps him to know that someone is nice to him and doesn't think he is useless. "
"<s>   Jack of No Trades     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday!        I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud.     Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder!     I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip.     I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis.     Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother.     Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev.     Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed.     Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me.     How else could I tell?     Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious.     If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands.     She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands.     I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either.  <doc-sep>I wonder why we never thought of healing as a potential psi-power, mymother said to me later, when I was catching a snatch of rest and shewas lighting cigarettes and offering me cups of coffee in an attempt tomake up twenty-six years of indifference, perhaps dislike, all at once.The ability to heal      is     recorded in history, only we never paid muchattention to it.     Recorded? I asked, a little jealously.     Of course, she smiled. Remember the King's Evil?     I should have known without her reminding me, after all the old books Ihad read. Scrofula, wasn't it? They called it that because the touchof certain kings was supposed to cure it ... and other diseases, too, Iguess.     She nodded. Certain people must have had the healing power and that'sprobably why they originally got to be the rulers.     In a very short time, I became a pretty important person. All the otherdeficients in the world were tested for the healing power and all ofthem turned out negative. I proved to be the only human healer alive,and not only that, I could work a thousand times more efficiently andeffectively than any of the machines. The government built a hospitaljust for my work! Wounded people were ferried there from all over theworld and I cured them. I could do practically everything except raisethe dead and sometimes I wondered whether, with a little practice, Iwouldn't be able to do even that.     When I came to my new office, whom did I find waiting there for me butLucy, her trim figure enhanced by a snug blue and white uniform. I'myour assistant, Kev, she said shyly.     I looked at her. You are?     I—I hope you want me, she went on, coyness now mixing withapprehension.     I gave her shoulder a squeeze. I do want you, Lucy. More than I cantell you now. After all this is over, there's something more I want tosay. But right now— I clapped her arm—there's a job to be done.     Yes, Kevin, she said, glaring at me for some reason I didn't havetime to investigate or interpret at the moment. My patients werewaiting for me.     They gave me everything else I could possibly need, except enoughsleep, and I myself didn't want that. I wanted to heal. I wanted toshow my fellow human beings that, though I couldn't receive or transmitthoughts or foretell the future or move things with my mind, all thosepowers were useless without life, and that was what I could give.     I took pride in my work. It was good to stop pain and ugliness, to knowthat, if it weren't for me, these people would be dead or permanentlydisfigured. In a sense, they were—well, my children; I felt a warmglow of affection toward them.     They felt the same way toward me. I knew because the secret of thehospital soon leaked out—during all those years of peace, thegovernment had lost whatever facility it had for keeping secrets—andpeople used to come in droves, hoping for a glimpse of me.  <doc-sep>The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the      thing     on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it.     I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee.     It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked.     Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash.     You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently.     I was knocked to my knees.     Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings.      Which areyou?          Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth.           What is Doc's full name?          I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior.     From the bed, Doc said a word. Son.     Then he disappeared.     I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what.     He didn't use that, Andre said.     So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the      thing     he left.     The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the      Book of Dyzan     or the      Book of Thoth     or the      Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan     or the      Necronomican     itself on human beings?     But they don't exist, I said wearily.     Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought.     The North American government      has     to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians.  <doc-sep></s>","n the year 2102, when this story takes place, 95% of the population has psi-powers. Because of the advancement of technology and medicine, physical ailments are easily and quickly remedied. There is even a cure-all that can heal most things, so it is not often that sickness or injury is relevant to life in the society that Kevin and his family live in. However, everything changes when an alien race from Alpha Centauri wages war on the humans. Unknown weapons mean unknown damage, and injury is out of the humans' control. Because Kevin does not have any psi-powers, he is encouraged to learn first aid so that he can be useful during the war. He is expected to be especially good at first aid because he does not feel the emotions of the injured in the way that telepaths do, and thus he should be able to stay more level-headed. However, he is even more effective in first aid that anyone imagined, because when he touches an injured person they heal almost instantaneously. What usually takes days with cure-all is achieved in mere seconds with a touch of Kevin's hand. It is not only the lack of violence that led to Kevin's power going unnoticed: he is the only person in the world with his powers, which makes it incredibly rare, instead of just being a power that nobody was looking for. "
"<s>III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  <doc-sep>It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain.     I looked at her.     It      is     an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless?     I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other.     My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on.     I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather.     Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything.     I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin.     My name's Lucy, she giggled.     No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern.     Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified!     So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself.     However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication.     If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said,       you     certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe      you     .     She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world.  <doc-sep>He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him.     He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak.     Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the      Annie O.     , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks.     As soon as the      Annie O.     was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead.     For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps.     When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland.     Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle.     But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail.     Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails.  <doc-sep></s>","Kevin thinks he is one of the 5% of the population that does not have psi-powers, and we can learn a lot about how society sees this group of people by his interactions with his peers and his family. Before realizing he had powers, Kevin had to stay at home to take care of the house. His family knew that he would not be able to make much money in any kind of job without powers, and it would shame their family for him to be working one of those jobs. Even when he is at home, he's often referred to as slow or useless. He has never had many friends because his peers hated playing sports with him, since they couldn't communicate with their minds, and so Kevin was always at a disadvantage. Similarly, even though he was likeable, girls never wanted to date him. He was also left out of other aspects of society, because a lot of news was delivered via tellies which is received through psi-powers, so he often has to learn about the goings-on in the society from his family. Kevin learns firsthand how big of a difference it meant for how he was treated once he realized he did have powers after all."
"<s>   Jack of No Trades     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy October 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright     on this publication was renewed.]        I was psick of Psi powers, not having any. Or didn't I? Maybe they'dpsee otherwise psomeday!        I walked into the dining room and collided with a floating mass offabric, which promptly draped itself over me like a sentient shroud.     Oh, for God's sake, Kevin! my middle brother's voice came muffledthrough the folds. If you can't help, at least don't hinder!     I managed to struggle out of the tablecloth, even though it seemed tobe trying to wrap itself around me. When Danny got excited, he lost hismental grip.     I could help, I yelled as soon as I got my head free, if anybodywould let me and, what's more, I could set the table a damn sightfaster by hand than you do with 'kinesis.     Just then Father appeared at the head of the table. He could as easilyhave walked downstairs as teleported, but I belonged to a family ofexhibitionists. And Father tended to show off as if he were still akid. Not that he looked his age—he was big and blond, like Danny andTim and me, and could have passed for our older brother.     Boys, boys! he reproved us. Danny, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself—picking on poor Kev.     Even if it hadn't been Danny's fault, he would still have been blamed.     Nobody was ever supposed to raise a voice or a hand or a thought topoor afflicted Kev, because nature had picked on me enough. And thenicer everybody was to me, the nastier I became, since only when theylost their tempers could I get—or so I believed—their true attitudetoward me.     How else could I tell?     Sorry, fella, Dan apologized to me. The tablecloth spread itself outon the table. Wrinkles, he grumbled to himself. Wrinkles. And I hadit so nice and smooth before. Mother will be furious.     If she were going to be furious, she'd be furious already, Fatherreminded him sadly. It must be tough to be married to a deep-probetelepath, I thought, and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. Itwas so seldom I got the chance to feel sorry for anyone except myself.But I think you'll find she understands.     She knows, all right, Danny remarked as he went on into the kitchen,but I'm not sure she always understands.     I was surprised to find him so perceptive on the abstract level,because he wasn't what you might call an understanding person, either.  <doc-sep>There are tensions in this room, my sister announced as she slouchedin, not quite awake yet, and hatred. I could feel them all the wayupstairs. And today I'm working on the Sleepsweet Mattress copy, so Imust feel absolutely tranquil. Everyone will think beautiful thoughts,please.     She sat down just as a glass of orange juice was arriving at herplace; Danny apparently didn't know she'd come in already. The glassbumped into the back of her neck, tilted and poured its contents overher shoulder and down her very considerable decolletage. Being a mereprimitive, I couldn't help laughing.     Danny, you fumbler! she screamed.     Danny erupted from the kitchen. How many times have I asked all of younot to sit down until I've got everything on the table? Always a lot ofinterfering busybodies getting in the way.     I don't see why you have to set the table at all, she retorted. Arobot could do it better and faster than you. Even Kev could. Sheturned quickly toward me. Oh, I am sorry, Kevin.     I didn't say anything; I was too busy pressing my hands down on theback of the chair to make my knuckles turn white.     Sylvia's face turned even whiter. Father, stop him—      stop     him! He'shating again! I can't stand it!     Father looked at me, then at her. I don't think he can help it,Sylvia.     I grinned. That's right—I'm just a poor atavism with no control overmyself a-tall.     Finally my mother came in from the kitchen; she was an old-fashionedwoman and didn't hold with robocooks. One quick glance at me gave herthe complete details, even though I quickly protested, It's illegal toprobe anyone without permission.     I used to probe you to find out when you needed your diapers changed,she said tartly, and I'll probe you now. You should watch yourself,Sylvia—poor Kevin isn't responsible.     She didn't need to probe to get the blast of naked emotion that spurtedout from me. My sister screamed and even Father looked uncomfortable.Danny stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to himself.     Mother's lips tightened. Sylvia, go upstairs and change your dress.Kevin, do I have to make an appointment for you at the clinic again?A psychiatrist never diagnosed members of his own family—that is, notofficially; they couldn't help offering thumbnail diagnoses any morethan they could help having thumbnails.     No use, I said, deciding it was safe to drop into my chair. Who canadjust me to an environment to which I'm fundamentally unsuited?     Maybe there is something physically wrong with him, Amy, my fathersuggested hopefully. Maybe you should make an appointment for him atthe cure-all?     Mother shook her neatly coiffed head. He's been to it dozens of timesand he always checks out in splendid shape. None of us can spare thetime to go with him again, just on an off-chance, and he could hardlybe allowed to make such a long trip all by himself. Pity there isn't amachine in every community, but, then, we don't really need them.  <doc-sep>III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  <doc-sep></s>","Kevin's mother is a psychiatrist, but she does not want to diagnose her own family member, so she has to entrust Kevin's care to people outside the household. There is a lot of tension between Kevin and his mother at the beginning of the story, and she feels sorry for him whenever he feels hope for the future. It seems that the family knows she can feel the specific thoughts but they don't think she can necessarily where they're coming from, and doesn't have context for these feelings. Even though he is slower at some things than his siblings, his mom encourages him to get trained for first-aid once they know a war is coming; in some sense, he finally has a chance to directly contribute to society, according to his mom, and wouldn't be useless anymore. She also thinks he might have an advantage since he won't feel the others' pain as much. After Kevin finds out that he does have powers, his mom seems to be trying to make up for lost time, trying to bond with him, because she recognizes him as useful now, and is no longer indifferent (or even directly mean) towards him. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen.     He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman.     Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite!     Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all.     Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick.     Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change.     Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio?     Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly.     I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio.     Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it.     Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs.     He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk—     Rice said it, slow:     Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here.     Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere....     Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw.     Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next:     Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever.     We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later.     Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus.     Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo?     Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice.     Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches.     Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up—      now!       <doc-sep></s>","Captain Steffens and his crew, including Lieutenant Ball, are exploring the dead (uninhabited) fourth planet of the star called Tybanon in the Coal Sack Nebula. They are on a Mapping Command sent from Earth to explore new planets, assess them for life-forms and evaluate the ability of human colonization.This planet is peculiar because it contains stone building structures that are over 15,000 years old. Steffens and Ball discuss the profound realization that to be that old, the alien race that erected them must be quite advanced, with interstellar travel while humans were still throwing spears around. They conclude there were castaways stranded on the planet that were then evacuated since they could find no other traces of civilization besides the structures.They begin mystery-solving, wondering if the race evacuated to a different planet. The readings from the system indicate that there are moons, and the Third planet has a suitable temperature range for life, but has a CO2 atmosphere. They take their ship down to cruising altitude on the Third planet and find cities that have all been obliterated into black craters at least three miles in diameter and very deep. They are shaken, and then Steffens spots the most perfect robots he has ever seen. They are black plastic, expertly crafted, have hanging arms and legs and move with a gliding motion. He is forbidden by League Law from contacting planet-bound races. He is not clear if robots are a race (sentient robots are banned on Earth) and thinks that he could be in trouble whether he contacts them or not. Contacting them if they are a race would be bad, and also he would be dismissed for not fulfilling his mapping duties if they aren’t a race. As he wonders, the robots contact the humans telepathically, urging them to land since their only desire is to serve and sending a visual of a robot extending a handshake.Steffens decides not to reach out to the Alien Contact branch, and makes contact and lands on the planet. The robots are disappointed when the humans land, but show examples of caring for them like cleaning up the radiation so that the humans can feel more comfortable, and spreading their robot bodies out across the planet because they themselves are radioactive.The humans spend three weeks gathering knowledge of the planet. Steffens begins to inquire about their origins and finds they were constructed by “Makers” who are no longer on the planet, but that the robots believe will return. They were disappointed when the humans landed because they did not communicate telepathically and so could not be the makers. The robots also have Factories on the planet where they are constructed. The story ends with Steffens feeling an irony that he wishes to discover who made the robots, but asking them who their Makers are would be like asking a human who created their god - an impossible question."
"<s>   Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  <doc-sep>She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price.     You'll tell me your name?     Maggie.     Why did you save me?     Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator.     His own eyes widened. How did you know that?     She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis.     How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—     I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?     Fascinated, Ben nodded.     You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the      Odyssey     .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn.     He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it.     There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends.     He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly.     I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon.     Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain.     She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to.     But you don't think I will, do you?     I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest.     He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.     Just one more question, he almost whispered.     Yes?     The man I killed—did he have a wife?     She hesitated. He thought,      Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that?       Finally she said, He had a wife.     Children?     Two. I don't know their ages.     She left the room.  <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way.     It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps.     Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what?     We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured.     The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her.     In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces.     There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken.     She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left.     He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff....     We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters.     I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything....     The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made?     Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand.      It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier     ....     Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre.     For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now....       Gold!       I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top.      Gold!       I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold!     And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery....  <doc-sep></s>","The story opens in the Coal Sack Nebula, on the uninhabited fourth planet of a star called Tyban. There are twelve 15,000 year old stone buildings on the dusty uninhabitable planet, the first evidence of another advanced space-crossing alien race.Steffens and his crew travel to the Third planet in the Tyban solar system which seems uninhabited as well, with the cities obliterated into black holes in the ground that are at least three miles wide. The Third planet is Earth-like, with continents, hills and deserts, and of a suitable temperature for life, but with absolutely no vegetation, deathly radiation for humans, and a CO2 atmosphere. They see splintered walls and wreckage, but no life - until their discovery of the robots. There are nine million black, plastic robots slightly shorter than humans on the planet, and they have a huge, grey block building Factory near the edge of the twilight zone in a valley between two mountains where they are produced. Their desire for their human-like Makers to return to them, and their use of telepathic communication and mind-probing sets an eerie vibe over the humans’ exploration of the planet."
"<s>What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat.     The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to      feel     their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well.     Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens.     Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing.     Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.     There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad?     Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do.     The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.     I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures.     The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted.     I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:     We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the      Makers     , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance.     It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.     The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:     Can you tell us where the Makers are?     Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty.     The Makers—are not here.     Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on:     The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time.     Could that be      pain     in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.     War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled.     He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that      nothing     ,      nothing     could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.     The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.     If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.     Were they immortal?  <doc-sep>   Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  <doc-sep></s>","The “Makers” are to the robots as gods of creation are to humans. The robots believe that the Makers wouldn’t have created them if they wouldn’t return for them one day, and so steadfastly believe that the Makers will visit. They tell Steffens that the Makers were similar to his human form. This is evidenced by the disappointment the robots display when the humans land and the robots realize they do not communicate telepathically, thus cannot be the Makers they were expecting.Steffens states the “ironic parallel” of the Makers at the end of the story because the humans wish to understand who created the robots, but they can’t possibly answer that question because it would be like asking a human who created their god."
"<s>   Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  <doc-sep>Would you like to see a doctor?     Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robotwas referring.     No, not yet, he said, thank you. He swallowed hard as the robotscontinued waiting patiently.     Could you tell me, he said at last, how old you are? Individually?     By your reckoning, said his robot, and paused to make thecalculation, I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days ofage, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive.     Steffens tried to understand that.     It would perhaps simplify our conversations, said the robot, ifyou were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using thefirst—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb.     Glad to meet you, Steffens mumbled.     You are called 'Stef,' said the robot obligingly. Then it added,pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: The age of—Peb—is seventeenyears, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining somethirty-eight years.     Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously aboutfifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot,Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygenand plant life would have been needed. Unless—     He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.     Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.     His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.     Do you build yourselves? the exec asked.     Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, asif the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.     No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the— another pause fora word—by the      Factory     .     The Factory?     Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?     Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.     Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here.     It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew wentalong with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the otherside of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light ofdusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay ina valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circlingin the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots movedoutside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving aroundtheir birthplace.  <doc-sep>Greetings, it said! Greetings! Ball was mumbling incredulouslythrough shocked lips.     Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffenswas not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.     We await your coming, it said gravely, and repeated: Our desire isonly to serve.     And then the robots sent a      picture     .     As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate tookshape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing aloneagainst a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots.With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of thehanging arms of its side, of its      right     side, and extended it towardSteffens, a graciously offered hand.     Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realizedright away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. Therobot mind had helped.     When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. Hewaited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling ofthe robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, ifthey wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing morehappened, he began to lose his fear.     While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back.He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for goodmeasure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shakinghands.     Greetings, he said, because it was what      they     had said, andexplained: We have come from the stars.     It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wonderedbaffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Ordersomeone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and      think     a message?     No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:     We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon yourplanet.  <doc-sep></s>","The robots are the first evidence of an advanced alien race that man has discovered in 300 years of interstellar travel. They are at least a foot shorter than the humans, with an eye-band circling their entire head, bunches of hanging arms, and a gliding type of locomotion. Steffens remarks that they are some of the most well-built machinery he has ever seen. The robots are made of black plastic, and have rows of dense symbols engraved all over their torsos. Their communication comes to the humans telepathically, and they are fully sentient - aware of their life spans of ~55 years, and their time until death. They also have the ability to probe the minds of the humans and even urge them to make certain decisions, but they reveal they only use this to get the humans to land and will not use it further except when given permission.They claim to have been made by the Makers, and exhibit the Factory where they are built to Steffens and his crew while they are on the Third planet. There are more than nine million of them in total on the planet, which astonishes the humans, and they spend their time trying to expand their knowledge to better serve their Makers when they eventually return to the planet. "
"<s>   Orphans of the Void     By MICHAEL SHAARA     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Finding a cause worth dying for is no       great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding       one worth living for is the genuine problem!        In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet ofa star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stoodcounting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was anysignificance in the number. He had no idea.     What do you make of it? he asked.     Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried toscratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.     Looks like a temporary camp, Ball said. Very few buildings, and allbuilt out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways,maybe?     Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weatheredstone jutted out of the sand before him.     No inscriptions, he pointed out.     They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there'snot another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call itmuch of a civilization.     You don't think these are native?     Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.     Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of greatage. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old—      too     old.He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stoneridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticedthat the buildings had no airlocks.     Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: Want to set up shop, Skipper?     Steffens paused. All right, if you think it will do any good.     You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. Thesethings are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. Andyou can see that the rock itself is native— he indicated the ledgebeneath their feet—and was cut out a long while back.     How long?     Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. I wouldn't like to say off-hand.     Make a rough estimate.     Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiledwryly and said: Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know.     Steffens whistled.     Ball pointed again at the wall. Look at the striations. You can tellfrom that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind      at least     several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only afraction of that force.     The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been ininterstellar space for three hundred years and this was the firstuncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It wasan historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.     Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had builtthese had been in space for thousands of years.     Which ought to give      them     , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell ofa good head-start.  <doc-sep>Steffens had not realized that there were so many.     They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now therewere hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arrivingeven as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills withfantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety.Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal.Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but nonetouched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.       One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens nowsaw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The blackthing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture.Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal throughthe glove of his suit.     Welcome, the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and nowSteffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It wasless friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less      interested     , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.     Thank you, Steffens said. We are deeply grateful for your permissionto land.     Our desire, the robot repeated mechanically, is only to serve.     Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. Hetried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they      should     seem inhuman. But....     Will the others come down? asked the robot, still mechanically.     Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above,jets throbbing gently.     They must remain with the ship, Steffens said aloud, trusting to therobot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read hismind, there was no need to ask.     For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tenseand uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot wasobviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon mento come on out of the skiff.     They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heardthe one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.     We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It isour—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when weobserved that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were aboutto leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that youmight base your decision upon sufficient data.     Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.     We perceive, the robot went on, that you are unaware of our completeaccess to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn thatwe have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize.Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Onlythat information was taken which is necessary for communicationand—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at yourrequest.     Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probedas violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and heretreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.     The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no waydifferent from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robotswas immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffensguessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake,because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. Thepicture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen,had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him andthe others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentarylapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemedalmost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began toexamine the first robot in detail.     It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen.The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band ofthe head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon themetal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon thechest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continuedin orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to thebase of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it wasa remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern onthe nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to concludethat the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively atthat, although the answer seemed illogical.     It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered thesymbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.  <doc-sep>After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had theship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were metby the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side,humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands ofthe robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of themstood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sunlike a vast, metallic field of black wheat.     The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to      feel     their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionlessfaces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they werestill reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, hadbuilt them well.     Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clearplastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved outfrom the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speakhad remained with Steffens.     Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ballwas for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing andtalking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon thebare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died.It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in theirvery lines which was pleasant and relaxing.     Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.     There's no harm in them, said Ball at last, openly, not minding ifthe robots heard. They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoeverheard of a robot being glad?     Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: I hopeyou will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. Wehave never before made contact with a race like yours. It was saidhaltingly, but it was the best he could do.     The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.     I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you.Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I amnot exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended toconvey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believethat there is fundamental similarity between our structures.     The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it wasdisconcerted.     I must tell you, the thing went on, that we ourselves are—curious.It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend.Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:     We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largelymetallic, and that of the      Makers     , which would appear to be somewhatmore like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint youwith the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you areinterested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to beof assistance.     It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently whileBall and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously,were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the doctors,Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designedspecifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.     The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the questionhe had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:     Can you tell us where the Makers are?     Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn'treally be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spokewith difficulty.     The Makers—are not here.     Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion andwent on:     The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time.     Could that be      pain     in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then thespectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.     War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not beenkilled.     He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in themidst of a radiation so lethal that      nothing     ,      nothing     could live;robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.     The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.     If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life aswell, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that thefree oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how oldwere the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots,then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The blackwheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.     Were they immortal?  <doc-sep></s>","Steffens was stumped as to what to do when they visually discovered robots on the Third planet. He proactively sounded an alert and put defense screens on the ship, but wondered about what his governing League Law would have him do.Contact with races on foreign planets was forbidden, but he was unsure if robots could be called a race. Earth didn’t have robots because imaginative robots were expressly forbidden to build. Steffens thought it was possible the robots were the brains of natives encased in metal.Since Steffens is under “The Mapping Command”, he is supposed to go no further than examining unexplored systems, checking for life-forms and the possibilities of human colonization. His conundrum was that,  “if he returned to Sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction of duty.”The robots reach out telepathically, saying in words that they are only here to serve, and communicating a photo to the minds of the crew of a robot extending a hand for a handshake. Although Steffens wonders about letting the Alien Contact crew handle the situation, he ultimately decides it is his responsibility - and he goes on to initiate contact by requesting to land. He is encouraged to stay and explore by the kind nature of the robots."
"<s>   A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS     By BILL DOEDE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The city was sacred, but not to its gods.       Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!        Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.     At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.     He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated.     He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.     He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.     Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back.     Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat.     Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools.     Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.     He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun.     There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him.     His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought.     You did not leave, as I asked you.     Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that.     You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry.     Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function.     What rooms?     Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms.     I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least.     You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure?     I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand.     No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.  <doc-sep></s>","Stationed on the Earth base of Alpha Centaurus II, Mr. Michaelson, a tall, gaunt archeologist, explores the planet for historical artifacts. He is human, but has a special cylinder embedded in the flesh behind his ear that teleports him to a different location when touched.He comes across an empty city in the desert, with the old buildings filling with blown sand, though he is not alone. He is approached by a short, gray-haired native with webbed bare feet (aka webfoot or Maota) that he spotted in a doorway, who introduces himself as the keeper of the city and implores him to leave because he angers the gods. Michaelson brushes aside that spirits exist, but notes that he must keep an eye on this intelligent native.As Michaelson continues to explore the city and disobey what he was told, the native again demands he leave, calling him “Mr. Earthgod.” Michaelson learns his name is Maota, and tries to negotiate to preserve the artifacts and build a museum. Maota does not succumb to Michaelson’s tactics, and whacks him unconscious with a metal book.Michaelson awakes and teleports to a creek 500 miles away to clean his wound, then returns and opens the book to find voices talking to him. He is mystified that the civilization here said to have disappeared half a million years ago was communicating with him. In his wonder, he picks up another clock-like artifact he has been curious about, and is shocked to feel it is radiating heat.The next day, Michaelson awakes in the dead city to find Maota pointing a gun-like weapon at him - apologizing for causing him pain instead of killing him. Maota reads from the talking poetry book, at Michaelson’s request. It moves them both, Michaelson feeling the humanity of the civilization, and Maota feeling the gentle spirits. Maota becomes furious that Michaelson wants to move things into a museum and begins to fire the weapon. Michaelson teleports behind him and in their struggle to take possession they discharge it - destroying the book. Maota has disgraced himself and the gods and becomes inconsolable. He has been wanting to try the “clock” device for some time - now with renewed determination because he doesn’t care if it kills him. He explains that he thinks the race of the dead city entered a fourth dimension. Pushing the button, Maota’s body collapses in death. Michaelson tries to bury him, but has the sense that his soul is elsewhere. Michaelson desperately studies the artifacts to understand the clock, then radically decides to just press the button too. Afterwards, he sees his dead body below him and communicates with Maota’s consciousness in a spiritual dimension. He discovers that he can will his cylinder with his mind to return to his physical body, traversing between the physical and spiritual realms. This infuriates Maota who can never return to his body and feels pushed and tricked by Michaelson. "
"<s>   A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS     By BILL DOEDE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The city was sacred, but not to its gods.       Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!        Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.     At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.     He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated.     He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.     He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.     Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.  <doc-sep>   IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back.     Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat.     Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools.     Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.     He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun.     There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him.     His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought.     You did not leave, as I asked you.     Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that.     You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry.     Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function.     What rooms?     Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms.     I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least.     You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure?     I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand.     No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set on Alpha Centaurus II, a planet with two moons and many unknowns and dangers. There is an Earth settlement on the planet, and the archeologist, Mr. Michaelson traverses around a sandy, desert-like area under a pale blue sky come to be referred to as the dead city which was last populated half a million years ago.The dead city is a complex variety of buildings, including small homes, huge ones with spires, and all varieties of square and spherical shapes. Suspension bridges connected conical towers. Desert plants grew from rooftops and sand had blown down the streets and filled the doorways. Despite not believing in the spiritual, Mr. Michaelson experiences waves of energy communicating with him from the artifacts he finds in the dead city, giving it the feel of not being deserted at all.Through the discovery of an important artifact (the “clock) that is radiating heat. The two characters Maota and Mr. Michaelson also discover that they can travel into a spiritual dimension setting where they look down on the planet, or anywhere in the universe, and communicate with their thoughts."
"<s>When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.     Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart inthe sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,familiar to Michaelson.     Michaelson asked, Did you sleep well?     No.     I'm sorry to hear that.     How do you feel?     Fine, but my head aches a little.     Sorry, Maota said.     For what?     For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you.     Michaelson relaxed somewhat. What kind of man are you? First you tryto break my skull, then you apologize.     I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright.     He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.     It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it lookedlike a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by itsappearance. It was a deadly weapon.       Well, he said, before you kill me, tell me about the book. He heldit up for Maota to see.     What about the book?     What kind of book is it?     What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what      kind     of book? You have seen it. Itis like any other book, except for the material and the fact that ittalks.     No, no. I mean, what's in it?     Poetry.     Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history?Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is asubject worthy of a book.     Maota shook his head. One does not study a dead culture to learn howthey made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I mustkill you now, so I can get some rest.     The old man raised the gun.  <doc-sep>Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. You lie.     No.     If I had this machine, could I travel as you?     Yes.     Then I'll kill you and take yours.     It would not work for you.     Why?     Each machine is tailored for each person.     The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charredhole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, lookinghalf-heartedly again for the book.     Look, Michaelson said. I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human.Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?     He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson'sface. Finally he shook his head sadly. When we first met I hoped wecould think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. Wehave finished, you and I.     He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.     Michaelson caught up to him. Are you leaving the city?     No.     Where are you going?     Away. Far away. Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.     Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave thecity?     There are many directions. You would not understand.     East. West. North. South. Up. Down.     No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see.     Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section ofthe city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfedagainst larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leadingto a particular building.     Michaelson said, This is where you live?     Yes.     Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around.The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who isthis old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosinga life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Abovethe bed a clock was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered hisfright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.     Maota pointed to it.     You asked about this machine, he said. Now I will tell you. He laidhis hand against it. Here is power to follow another direction.  <doc-sep>No! Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.     Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder andgathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, andgave his most violent command.     At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, thenit struck him.      He was standing up!       The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the differencebetween himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was wherehe went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind,leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But theclock was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.     To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same resultas before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.     You devil! Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger,irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.I said you were a god. I said you were a god.      I said you were agod...!        <doc-sep></s>","Mr. Michaelson is a determined, tall, gaunt archeologist who enjoys finding artifacts and methodically undergoes the process of discovering and unearthing things, like this dead city on Alpha Centaurus II. His wife died many years ago back on Earth, and he has no children and no friends in the Earth settlement. He has a tiny cylinder in the flesh behind his ear that allows him to teleport instantly to a different location when touched.He does not believe in the spiritual, and rejects that the dead city he stumbles across even needs a keeper, offending Maota greatly who refers to him as “Mr. Earthgod.”Mr. Michaelson is ignorant and pushy towards Maota, not heeding his warnings or respecting his appeals to leave because it is angering the gods. Instead, Mr. Michaelson can’t understand why Maota won’t negotiate with him, almost as if he is entitled to take possession of the secrets and artifacts of the dead city"
"<s>   A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS     By BILL DOEDE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The city was sacred, but not to its gods.       Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!        Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.     At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.     He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated.     He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.     He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.     Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.  <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back.     Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat.     Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools.     Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.     He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun.     There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him.     His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought.     You did not leave, as I asked you.     Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that.     You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry.     Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function.     What rooms?     Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms.     I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least.     You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure?     I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand.     No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.  <doc-sep>The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, wavinghis arms madly. Mr. Earthgod, he cried. It is sacred ground whereyou are trespassing!     The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short,even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing upand down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feetdragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.     You never told us about this old dead city, Michaelson said,chidingly. Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't itbeautiful?     Yes, beautiful. You will leave now.     Leave? Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were achild. I just got here a few hours ago.     You must go.     Why? Who are you?     I am keeper of the city.     You? Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was,said, What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?     The spirits may return.     Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed histrousers. He pointed. See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say,some alloy impervious to rust and wear.     The spirits are angry.     Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons,and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it.     Leave!     The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth inanger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadlyserious.     Look, he said. No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you knowthat? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities halfcovered with sand and dirt.     He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. Thesun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. Heglanced backward. The webfoot was following.     Mr. Earthgod! the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroythe home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota ofchange and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now,or be killed.  <doc-sep></s>","The webfoot, real name Maota (also referred to as “the native” by Mr. Michaelson), is the self-proclaimed keeper of the dead city on Alpha Centaurus II. He is an older man of at least sixty or seventy years, short in stature with long gray hair to his shoulders. The toes of his webbed, bare feet drag in the sand as he walks making a trail behind him.  Maota is sturdy in his beliefs that the dead city needs to be protected, and that the gods are being disrupted by Mr. Michaelson. He feels strongly enough about it that he resorts to physical violence on two occasions - hitting Mr. Michaelson with a book over the head, and firing a gun-like weapon at him. Although he is angry and violent with Mr. Michaelson, he also shows remarkable tolerance for him. Maota’s ultimate duty, he believes, is to the gods. This brings him turmoil when he thinks he missed the chance the gods gave him to kill Mr. Michaelson, and even apologized to him directly for instead letting him suffer with a head wound instead of killing him. There is a reference to them perhaps having met before when Michaelson says tauntingly to Maota, “You never told us about this old dead city… Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it beautiful?” Thus, Maota is also motivated to protect the dead city at all costs, perhaps even concealing its location. "
"<s>   A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS     By BILL DOEDE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The city was sacred, but not to its gods.       Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!        Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from hisburrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.     At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from theEarth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then hesaw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.     He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted manwas doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts wereknown about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actuallynatives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet ofthe system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent,though uneducated.     He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down theancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty oftime to wonder about him.     He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildingsbefore him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were hugewith tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Squarebuildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridgesconnected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the windafter half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebonysurfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streetsand filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smallerbuildings.     Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruinshappily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact,marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that tocatch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawledover the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulationof ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog,under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun.Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.  <doc-sep>He turned and walked off, not looking back.     Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide,hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyonda huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one ofthe intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told himthat.     Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity.He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayedfloors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items,making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouchedby the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutestdetail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found booksstill standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them withouttools.     Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.     He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smellof age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filteredthrough clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness,dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still inthe sun.     There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, althoughthis was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ...although home was a very great distance away. There was no one backthere to worry about him.     His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. Hisfriends in the settlement would not look for him for another day atleast. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, athing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly,without effort save a flicker of thought.     You did not leave, as I asked you.     Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then herelaxed. He said, You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that.     You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to killyou, but if I must.... He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.The spirits are angry.     Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longerthan I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks likea clock but I'm certain it had some other function.     What rooms?     Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they werebedrooms.     I do not know. The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he wassixty or seventy years old, at least.     You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must beeducated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of somesort. What is it? What does it measure?     I insist that you go. The webfoot held something in his hand.     No. Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore thenative, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.  <doc-sep>When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs inthe night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. OldMaota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemeda more practical place now.     The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, shorthammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a newdetermination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted foolwanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek heremembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the cakedblood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.     The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had broughta coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of windsighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in thesand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.     It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand overthe binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squintedat the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but thewriting was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over thewriting.     Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.     God in heaven! he exclaimed.     He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down thelength of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. NotMaota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, hestooped and picked up the book again.     Good God! he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers hadtouched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirringin his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.     A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuringGod-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those alreadydestroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, theartistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.     I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. Theysay these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let'ssee, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousandlifetimes.     And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all thoseyears!     He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discoveryof the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefingeragainst the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and enteredthe building. He laid the book down and tried to take the clockoff the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt alongthe wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved overits smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with anexclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.       The clock was warm.       He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where therewere people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should notbe. Half a million years—and here was warmth!     He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. Nomistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. Hestood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambledthrough the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy streetuntil he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping forair, feeling the pain throb in his head.     Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile couldbe accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from lossof blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trailof important discoveries he had no common sense.     He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.  <doc-sep></s>","The cylinder is an implement tailored to Mr. Michaelson that is tucked behind his ear and will allow him to go anywhere that he desires when it is pressed. He uses it several times in the story to travel to physical places, disappearing immediately and reappearing in a new location. Once, to travel to a cold stream to wash his bleeding wounds after being hit on the head with a book by Maota, and a second time to avoid being killed by Maota firing a weapon to kill him.After Maota presses the button of the “clock” in the dead city and appears to drop dead. Mr. Michaelson desperately attempts to gain the knowledge to understand what the clock device does. Rather radically, he decides that he must press the button to fully understand, not completely knowing that he won’t die when he does. When Mr. Michaelson sees his dead body below him in the city and communicates wordlessly with Maota in this spiritual dimension he begins to panic and search for ways to get back into his body. This is how he discovers that he can will the cylinder with his mind, and return into his physical body by doing so. Through this act he can traverse between the physical and spiritual realms, which ultimately makes him considered a god by Maota (greatly angering him)."
"<s>  THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen.     He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman.     Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite!     Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all.     Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick.     Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change.     Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio?     Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly.     I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio.     Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it.     Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs.     He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk—     Rice said it, slow:     Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here.     Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere....     Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw.     Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next:     Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever.     We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later.     Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus.     Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo?     Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice.     Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches.     Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up—      now!       <doc-sep></s>","Engineer Barry Barr is one of the chosen few to ride on Number Three to Venus. His beloved Dorothy Voorhees would have been riding with him, but Barry had a piece of scaffolding drop on his ankle. Unable to make the first flight, Barry hops onto Number Four instead. On the journey to Venus, a small meteor crashes into their hull at several hundreds of miles an hour. The effect is immediate: Ryan is killed in the jet room and traces of the meteor are stuck in the field. Barry wakes up when the alarm bells are sounded, and rushes to join the rest of the crew to figure out what’s going on. Nick Podtaguine is steering the ship with emergency controls while Captain Reno looks on. Once the jet room stabilized, Captain Reno opens the doors to find Ryan’s body and ruin. After fixing all that they could, Reno hit the accelerator, only to watch in dismay at it soared out of proportions. Captain Reno cut off the power, realizing that the meteor had left metal particles in the cylinder of force. He asks for volunteers to work outside of the ship and remove all traces of the meteor. No one volunteers at first because of how dangerous a task it is; Sigma radiation affects man in ways still unknown and incurable. After Robson Hind turns the task down, Barry volunteers. He steps outside in his spacesuit equipped to block radiation and removes them with the chisel. Once he returns inside, he falls asleep and wakes a day later already feeling the effects of the radiation. His symptoms only increase: dryness, heat, and breathing difficulties. He faints upon standing and realizes that the Sigma radiation had seeped into his spacesuit. Four heads toward Venus while Barry suffers from an insatiable thirst. Finally, upon landing, they throw open the doors to let in the muggy Venusian air, and Barry feels like he can breathe again. Two and Three welcome them, and Barry throws his arms around Dorothy before fainting. Dr. Carl Jensen gives him water which Barry inhales. He’s growing gills on the sides of his neck, and dry air is becoming more intolerable. Barry asks Nick to build him a machine to let in moisture, allowing him to breathe better. He grows webbed fingers and toes. Dorothy doesn’t visit him while in hospital until she can’t bear it anymore. She bursts open the door and reveals she still loves him even though he has a wife and family back in Philadelphia. Barry reveals the falsehood and believes that Hind sent her a letter detailing this lie. One night, he wakes up to realize his moisture machine was broken and the door locked. He escapes by breaking the window and runs to the water. He dives in and inhales the water. Worms attack him, but he swims away to the ocean. He battles humanoid Venusians and kills one of them. He rescues a girl from being robbed. "
"<s>  THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations.     Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here.     First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor.     Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.     Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.     But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions.     On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.     Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials.     Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.     Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end.     She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.     But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.     The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate.     Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.     But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.     He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action.     Then it was done.     As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations.  <doc-sep>Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation haddone to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew intomembranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced anddark parallel lines appeared.     But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had notstopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He hadto believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of theweird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Stillhe was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy'sfailure to visit him did not help his mental condition.     Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming.Dorothy was leaning over him.     Barry! Barry! she whispered. I can't help it. I love you even if youdo have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but allthat seems so far away it doesn't matter any more. Tears glistened inher eyes.     Huh? he grunted. Who? Me?     Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blastedoff—oh, the most piteous letter!     Barry was fully awake now. I'm not married. I have no child.I've never been in Philadelphia, he shouted. His lips thinned.I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter! he declared grimly.     Robson wouldn't! she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubtin her voice.     Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.     I believe you, Barry.     She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the daysat Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints ofcivilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, hadawakened in her the realization that she was a human being and awoman, as well as a toxicologist.     When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyousand confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes angersimmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearrangingRobson Hind's features.     The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, butthis time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that hadmade Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son hadcarried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency orjudiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlooksome undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for theFive Ship Plan.     But even with his trickery Hind had lost.     He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.     The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overheadtubelight was off.     He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.     Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mistmachine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead,cut off outside his room.     Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the airwould be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to callfor help.     The door was locked!     He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw hadbeen removed.     He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metaldoorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets wasefficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only tobounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.     Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chairand swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again.A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched undercontinued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waningstrength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.     He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-ladenVenusian air poured in—but it was not enough!     He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landedsprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confusedrustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar ofapproaching unconsciousness.     There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurchedforward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.     Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes ofcolored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earthhabits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.     Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hungslack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of hislife since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.     Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the oozeof the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from thebrackish, silt-clouded water.      III     Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he becameaware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knewinstinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shockthe meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off fromall other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colonywere separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airlessvoid between Earth and Venus.     Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He openedhis eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched somethingburrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fatworm between his fingers.     Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He waswearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest tocongregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of hiseyelids.     For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came inincreasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit andburrowed, and blindly he began to swim.     Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough andkept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by onethe worms dropped off.     He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but ona faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltierhere, and clearer.     He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turnback, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though hecould not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense ofdirection.     He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted tounderwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements ofhands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble andceased. He sank.     Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratorysystem completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. Atlast he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.     Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through agasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were movingtoward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was afigure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat.One figure drifted limply bottomward.     Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke fromthe group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feetmoved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at theEarthman.     Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into thesticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.     Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swungin a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch toineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kickingand clawing.     Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head buttedthe attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab tothe creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.     Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body andwebbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn morefor ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The facewas coarse and savage.     It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatcheda short tube from its belt.     Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even ashe flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in thewater and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Somethingzipped past his head, uncomfortably close.     Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone.He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.     Barry stared through the reddening water.     Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian'sspear from the mud and raised it defensively.     But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fleddesperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw hisspear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, theother was upon her from behind.     One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slenderbody backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward thebottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to helpsecure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.     One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped ather brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one thedead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they wereloot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallicnecklace the girl wore but it did not break.     He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear.The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.     Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spearready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.     Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. Hisown lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside eachother's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to theinside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthmanarched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creaturegasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound inits belly.     The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.     Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.  <doc-sep></s>","Barry Barr transforms from a regular human male to a creature that breathes underwater and requires moisture to survive. After being exposed to Sigma radiation while removing particles from the outer hull of Four, Barry began to feel changes in his body. Air felt dry and hot in his lungs and he quickly developed shortness of breath. Fainting spells ensued and breathing difficulties. Once they arrived on Venus, Dr. Carl Jensen gave a grave diagnosis of the unknown. Barry developed dark marks on both sides of his neck, which soon transformed into gills. Webbing grew between his fingers and toes, and his revulsion to dry air only grew. He built a moisture machine to keep in his room so he could breathe comfortably. But it still wasn’t enough. On the night he was trapped inside of the dry room, he broke out and escaped to the water. Although his lungs weren’t fully adjusted to breathing water, he took off like a rocket and battled several Venusian creatures with ease. Barry goes from completely human to a humanoid merman of sorts. "
"<s>  THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  <doc-sep>The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds.     At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn.     He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in      varpa     cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat.     Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut.     The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely.     Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful.     Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to.     What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you?     Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot.     What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe?     Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy.     Dangerous?     Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh.     Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face.     That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know.     Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned.     The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it.     Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest.     It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away.  <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak:     Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed.     Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished.     Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision.     Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast.     Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ...      one     chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life!     Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death!     He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle.  <doc-sep></s>","Venus is a hot and muggy planet, most comparable to certain areas of South America. The air is so moist and hot that many of the colonists when arrived felt as though they were melting or wading through a swamp. Much of the planet is covered in swamps and marshes, while only a small portion is made up of solid rock or land. The air teems with buzzing insects and creatures roam the surface of the planet. Large vegetarian Venusian creatures roam solid ground, and, though they aren’t going to eat the humans, their humongous size can make them a danger to have around. Different creatures reside in the swamps and oceans as well. Flesh-eating worms lie deep in the swamps, while humanoid Venusians live out in the open ocean. "
"<s>  THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  <doc-sep>Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic materialwould distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that containedand directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.     Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.     It must be cleared. From the outside.     Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary spacewas constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailinggravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had neverencountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of itexcept that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodiesunpredictably altered.     Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged witha Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration.But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were smalland had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalizedgravitations.     The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with aparticularly unpleasant form of death.     Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.     I'm assigned, not expendable, he protested hastily. If there weremore trouble later.... His face was pasty.     Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tighteningin his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training inHoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Fourunassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was thelogical man.     For the safety of the ship. That phrase, taken from the ancientEarthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in theindoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, andremembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned andunassigned personnel.     For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smilequirking across his angular face making him look more like an untriedboy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through someof the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body,built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power,balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through hissandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.     He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.     But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for asense of responsibility.     Nick, will you help me button up? he asked with forced calmness.     For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. Butthen the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake hishand.     Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorheeshad refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—infact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. Butstill he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and thebrash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venusalive—  <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations.     Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here.     First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor.     Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.     Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.     But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions.     On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.     Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials.     Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.     Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end.     She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.     But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.     The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate.     Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.     But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.     He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action.     Then it was done.     As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations.  <doc-sep></s>","Robson Hind is a very wealthy man and jet chief of Number Four. The son of the manager of Hoskins Corporation, Hind was basically guaranteed a spot in the Five Ship Plan. Just like Barry Barr, he was instantly attracted to Dorothy Voorhees and her jet-black hair, high cheekbones, and intelligence. Before their ships take off, Hind conspires to join her on Number Three or transfer her to Number Four. However, his scheme eventually fails. Before Three lifts off, he sends Dorothy a letter pretending to be Barry’s imaginary wife from Philadelphia, asking her to stay away from him so his wife and children can still have him. This works for a time in keeping Dorothy away from Barry. Once again, however, Hind’s scheme ultimately fails once they arrive on Venus and Dorothy is near Barry again. While on Number Four, Hind refuses to exit the spaceship to work on the meteor shards, citing his assigned status. When Barry volunteers, Hind is secretly happy, almost as if he wants him out of the picture for good. After their arrival on Venus, Dorothy stays away from Barry for a time, but eventually runs into his hospital room and embraces him. She discovers that Hind’s letter was a lie and rushes into Barry’s arms for good. Presumably, once Hind discovered this, he dismantled Barry’s life-saving moisture machine and locked him in the room to die. "
"<s>  THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS     By ERIK FENNEL       On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile       swamp meets hostile sea ... there did       Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap       his Terran heritage for the deep dark       waters of Tana; for the strangely       beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-timecoordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. Thefootball-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at arelative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed closeenough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of theidling drivers.     It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and wasdragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energyof motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fusedthemselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.     In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particulardriver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sentsearing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartmentbefore the main circuit breakers could clack open.     The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shatteringa delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to seeagain soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and startedaft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantlythat Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.     Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jetroom door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, wasmanipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. Oneby one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.     The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitableconditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open.Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr wasclose behind him.     Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony,hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face hadlost its usual ruddiness.     Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily inthe zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. Theline accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meterglasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appearedminor. They had been lucky.     Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes, the captain saidmeaningfully.     Robson Hind cleared his throat. We can change accelerators in twohours, he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began toorder his crew into action.     It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despiteHind's shouted orders.     At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over tothe control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile hethrew in the accelerator switch.     The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing,and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.           There's metal in the field!      His voice was high and unsteady.  <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations.     Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here.     First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor.     Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.     Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.     But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions.     On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.     Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials.     Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.     Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end.     She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.     But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.     The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate.     Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.     But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.     He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action.     Then it was done.     As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations.  <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  <doc-sep></s>","After discovering Mars and the moon, humanity decided to conquer yet another planet: Venus. However, Venus was too far away to safely carry the amount of fuel needed for a round trip mission. So, the Five Ship Plan evolved. Five rockets were to fly to Venus at separate intervals. Those who landed first would build a colony to live in and welcome the others to the surface of the planet. Once all five had arrived, they would figure out which ship was in the best shape and transfer all remaining fuel to that one. The colonists would head back home if Venus was completely uninhabitable, or remain on the planet for the time being, living out their lives on the colony. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth.     They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought.     And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled.     But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the      xopa     fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse.     And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof      xopa     -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings....     Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate.   <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock.     I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the      why     of that law.     Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the      why     of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home.     How about these men that live and work here?     They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without.     Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson!     Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort.     Gray? Judith asked fearfully.     Yes?     Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?     Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned.     Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed.     I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney.     But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson?     Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles.     And Peterson? she prompted.     Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him.           Fan     him? I don't understand.     Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away.     He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.     You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up.     Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom!     Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.     Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!  <doc-sep></s>","Roy Walton is the Assistant Administrator of the Bureau of Population Equalization, otherwise known as Popeek. In the six weeks that they have been working, thousands of people have been euthanized, sterilized, and relocated in order to curb population growth and overcrowding. Roy Walton arrives at his desk, filled with papers, and settles into his miserable job. He asks for a relocation of the people of central Belgium to Patagonia before his receptionist alerts him Mr. Prior is here to see him. He refuses, but Mr. Prior sneaks through security and the unlocked door–Walton’s fault–and demands his attention. He is a famous poet, one Walton admires. He asks Walton to save his son who is to be euthanized for being tubercular. Walton turns him down, but after Prior leaves, his words swim in his head. He realizes he wants to save his baby, and so he sets off to do just that. He runs into his boss, Director FitzMaugham in the elevator and tries to lie his way through the encounter. He narrowly succeeds but is left with the feeling that Director FitzMaughan knew more than he was letting on. Walton gets off at the 20th floor and breezes past the receptionist to input Philp Porter into the computer. A series of cards come out, detailing all the baby’s specifics as well as the tubercular diagnosis. He deletes the cause for euthanization and inputs the new data into the system. He comes back clear. Hoping no one saw him, he walks down past the hall of babies and chats with the doctor, asking where his brother, another doctor, is. Evidently, his brother is running analytics, so Walton is safe for now. He speaks with the executioner, Falbrough, and tells him to double-check every baby before euthanization, due to an unfortunate incident in Europe. Falbrough agrees, and Walton quickly slips back upstairs to his office. Worrying about his actions that day, Walton gets a call from Falbrough informing him that there was a mistake, and they saved a baby’s life that day. Walton tells him to keep it under wraps, and he quickly hangs up. Walton has now committed a felony, and he’s wondering what the long-term effects will be. His brother, Fred, calls him and tells him that he knows what he did. By accessing confidential information (a crime in and of itself), Fred knows that Roy saved that baby’s life illegally. He holds it over his head and asks for a favor in return, as well as silence on Roy’s end. The story ends with Roy’s fate up in the air as well as the fate of the new world order. "
"<s>     MASTER       of Life and Death       by     ROBERT SILVERBERG     ACE BOOKS     A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc.     23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.     MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH     Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc.     All Rights Reserved     For Antigone—     Who Thinks We're Property     Printed in U.S.A.     [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any     evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES     By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world.     For it was      his     job to tell parents their children were unfit to live;      he     had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?      CAST OF CHARACTERS     ROY WALTON     He had to adopt the motto—      the ends justify the means     .     FITZMAUGHAM     His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.     FRED WALTON     His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size.     LEE PERCY     His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.     PRIOR     With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?     DR. LAMARRE     He died for discovering the secret of immortality.      Contents      I     The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place.     Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters.     So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice.     Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.     His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay.     He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it.     It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated      4 June 2232     , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay,      Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.       Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition.     He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims,      If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.       Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came.     There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data.     It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.     He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep.     That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.     The annunciator chimed.     I'm busy, Walton said immediately.     There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency.     Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300.     Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment.     Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all.     Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to      see     one of those people and try to convince him of the need—     The door burst open.     A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers.     Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior.     The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did.     Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you?     Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of—     One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.     Search him, Walton said.     They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?     Neither. Leave him here with me.     Are you sure you—     Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now      get out     !     They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards.     Take a seat, Mr. Prior.     I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man.     I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior.     Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—     That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor?     Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted.     Grinning, Walton said, I have to do      something     when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable.     The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently.     Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance—     Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.     Mr. Walton....     Yes?     My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now....     Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.     He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—     Walton rose.       No     , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program.     I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—     You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for      other     people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live.           I     was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?     It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits.     Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked.     Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you.     Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer.     But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us.     Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks.     In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time.     It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food?     Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing.     Prior's words haunted him.      I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now?       The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too.       What good are poets?     he asked himself savagely.     The reply came swiftly:      What good is anything, then?     Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home.     Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.     The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act.     But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.     Prior's baby.     With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour.      II     He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway.     There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law.     Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law.     He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor.     Roy.     At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere.     Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham.     The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter?     Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately.     As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself.     The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you?     I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.     Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?     No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention.     I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think.     Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.     FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy.     The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed      Fourteen     ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed      twenty     , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination.     As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning?     Yes, Walton said.     He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?     That's right, sir, Walton said tightly.     He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind?     Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down.     Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles.     Of course, sir.     The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign:       FLOOR 20        Euthanasia Clinic and Files       Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now.     The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day.     I'll try, sir.     Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.       Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!       Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept.  <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely.     Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye!     She turned and disappeared.     Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait!      You!          He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down.     Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—     The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.     I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then.     A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late!     He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy?     Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here.     The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that.     Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good!     He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.     What's that? he whispered.     What's wha—      Oh!          Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.     Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up.     The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do?  <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  <doc-sep></s>","In the year 2232, the Earth’s population of humans had maxed out at seven billion. This huge influx of people and steady population growth caused major poverty, starvation, and trade/supply issues. For these reasons and more, the Equalization Law was implemented in order to contain humanity and limit population growth. One such rule under this new world order was the Equalization Law where all newborn babies must be presented before they are two weeks old to be examined. If they do not have any congenital defects or carry any unwanted genes, they will be allowed to live. If not, they will be committed to euthanization, otherwise known as Happysleep. As well, several thousand members of the elderly population were euthanized, as they were already on death’s doorstep. Thousands of men were sterilized in order to prevent any insufficient offspring, and those that were ill or handicapped in some way were also euthanized. As for overcrowding, the Bureau of Population Equalization (Popeek) also relocates certain groups of people to more empty settings. For example, Roy Walton set up a relocation for several thousand people in Belgium to the empty areas of Patagonia. "
"<s>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth.     They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought.     And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled.     But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the      xopa     fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse.     And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof      xopa     -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings....     Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate.   <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep></s>","Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg takes place on Earth many years in the future, specifically June 10, 2232, or six weeks after the equalization laws were implemented. The story takes place within the confines of the Cullen building, specifically through the twentieth and twenty-ninth floors. It starts in Roy Walton’s office on the twenty-eighth floor, designed à la 22nd Century neo-Victorian style. Roy redesigned his office, changing the lights, windows, and removing the trim, but the room still felt ugly to him. His office has a desk with a firearm strapped to the bottom, and the door features a lock so as to prevent an assassination. He communicates with people through a holographic video call, and papers and assignments are sent to his desk immediately. Throughout the story, Roy travels down the elevator to the 20th floor, otherwise known as the Euthanization Clinic. There is a receptionist there as well as several computers. Different offices house different doctors, but he makes his to the center for babies where the executioner works. The rooms are very sterile and hospital-like. Each baby had its own pen, and several doctors examined them all while parents watched from screens. "
"<s>Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the mainsection of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there,each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from oneto the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.     The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at itslocal clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and acertificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied acertificate ... and life.     Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?     Walton smiled affably. Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try tokeep in touch with every department we have, you know.     Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We'rereally getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!     Umm. Yes. Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he coulddo about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in hisprotégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.     Seen my brother around? he asked.     Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get himfor you, Mr. Walton?     No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later. Inwardly,Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor inthe employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, andRoy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.     Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump,squalling babies, and said, Find many sour ones today?     Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc,two blind, one congenital syph.     That only makes six, Walton said.     Oh, and a spastic, the doctor said. Biggest haul we've had yet.Seven in one morning.     Have any trouble with the parents?     What do you think? the doctor asked. But some of them seemed tounderstand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though.     Walton shuddered. You remember his name? he asked, with feigned calm.     Silence for a moment. No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look itup for you if you like.     Don't bother, Walton said hurriedly.     He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the executionchamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names athis desk when Walton appeared.     Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. Hewas short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contactlenses in his weak blue eyes. Morning, Mr. Walton.     Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?     Eleven hundred, as usual.     Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on, Walton said.To keep public opinion on our side.     Sir?     Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby thatcomes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been nomistake. Got that?           Mistake?     But how—     Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at oneof the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news getsout.      How glibly I reel this stuff off     , Walton thought in amazement.     Falbrough looked grave. I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-checkeverything from now on.     Good. Begin with the 1100 batch.     Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He leftvia a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.     Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of atowering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. Heremembered what FitzMaugham had said:      Once we make even one exception,the whole framework crumbles.       Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was littledoubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what hehad done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.     The annunciator chimed and said, Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep callingyou, sir.     Put him on.     The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness hadgiven way to wild-eyed tenseness.     What is it, Doctor?     It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'llnever guess what just happened—     No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up.     I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me thismorning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sentto me!     No!     It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his cardright here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern isfine.     Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card? Walton asked.     No, sir.     Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting greatanxiety. Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet.Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out thatthere's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over usin half an hour.     Yes, sir. Falbrough looked terribly grave. What should I do, sir?     Don't say a word about this to      anyone     , not even the men in theexamining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents,apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking forany future cases of this sort.     Certainly, sir. Is that all?     It is, Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deepbreath and stared bleakly at the far wall.     The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the EqualizationLaw—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminalas the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators,or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.     He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham andthe Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had doneit, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life,even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.     Well, the thing was done.     No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have tofinish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distantplaces and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning'sactivities.     The annunciator chimed again. Your brother is on the wire, sir.     Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, Put him on. Somehow, Frednever called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. AndWalton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by thiscall. No good at all.      III     Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out ofthe swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, builtcloser to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven,next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to get evenwith his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but toFred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.     Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression oftremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image totake shape, and when the time lag was over he said, Well, Fred? Whatgoes?     His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. They tell me you were down herea little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?     I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn'thave time.     Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred'slapel, and refused to look anywhere else.     Fred said slowly, You had time to tinker with our computer, though.     Official business!     Really, Roy? His brother's tone was venomous. I happened tobe using the computer shortly after you this morning. I wascurious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript ofyour conversation with the machine.     Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb.He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line andsay, That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeekcomputer outlet is confidential.     Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh,Roy?     How much do you know?     You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system,would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word ofthis, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Waltondoesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!     Thanks for small blessings, Roy said acidly.     You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now,shall we?     Anything you like, Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, thoughthe ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screencloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. I have somework to do now. His voice was barely audible.     I won't keep you any longer, then, Fred said.     The screen went dead.     Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. Henudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glasscleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.       Idiot!     he thought.      Fool!       He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomedto an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could seethrough Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and hisfather-substitute.     FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time,but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as forFred....     There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never beenparticularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (nowalmost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Theirparents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred hadbeen sent to the public crèche.     After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, aneducation in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's privatesecretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistantadministrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine,unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep sectionof Popeek, thanks to Roy.   <doc-sep>     MASTER       of Life and Death       by     ROBERT SILVERBERG     ACE BOOKS     A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc.     23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.     MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH     Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc.     All Rights Reserved     For Antigone—     Who Thinks We're Property     Printed in U.S.A.     [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any     evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES     By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world.     For it was      his     job to tell parents their children were unfit to live;      he     had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?      CAST OF CHARACTERS     ROY WALTON     He had to adopt the motto—      the ends justify the means     .     FITZMAUGHAM     His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.     FRED WALTON     His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size.     LEE PERCY     His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.     PRIOR     With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?     DR. LAMARRE     He died for discovering the secret of immortality.      Contents      I     The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place.     Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters.     So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice.     Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.     His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay.     He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it.     It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated      4 June 2232     , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay,      Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.       Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition.     He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims,      If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.       Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came.     There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data.     It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.     He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep.     That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.     The annunciator chimed.     I'm busy, Walton said immediately.     There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency.     Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300.     Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment.     Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all.     Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to      see     one of those people and try to convince him of the need—     The door burst open.     A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers.     Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior.     The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did.     Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you?     Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of—     One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.     Search him, Walton said.     They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?     Neither. Leave him here with me.     Are you sure you—     Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now      get out     !     They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards.     Take a seat, Mr. Prior.     I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man.     I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior.     Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—     That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor?     Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted.     Grinning, Walton said, I have to do      something     when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable.     The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently.     Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance—     Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.     Mr. Walton....     Yes?     My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now....     Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.     He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—     Walton rose.       No     , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program.     I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—     You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for      other     people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live.           I     was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?     It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits.     Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked.     Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you.     Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer.     But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us.     Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks.     In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time.     It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food?     Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing.     Prior's words haunted him.      I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now?       The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too.       What good are poets?     he asked himself savagely.     The reply came swiftly:      What good is anything, then?     Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home.     Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.     The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act.     But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.     Prior's baby.     With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour.      II     He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway.     There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law.     Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law.     He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor.     Roy.     At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere.     Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham.     The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter?     Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately.     As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself.     The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you?     I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.     Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?     No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention.     I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think.     Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.     FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy.     The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed      Fourteen     ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed      twenty     , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination.     As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning?     Yes, Walton said.     He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?     That's right, sir, Walton said tightly.     He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind?     Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down.     Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles.     Of course, sir.     The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign:       FLOOR 20        Euthanasia Clinic and Files       Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now.     The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day.     I'll try, sir.     Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.       Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!       Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep></s>","Fred Walton is the brother of Roy Walton, Assistant Administrator of the Bureau of Population Equalization. Fred Walton is a physician with a vaguely unsuccessful career history: medical school, a failed private practice, and finally becoming a doctor in the euthanizing section of Bureau of Population Equalization (or Popeek) thanks to his brother. Their childhood was tense and difficult. They were orphaned at 7 and 9 respectively when their parents died in a jet crash. Fred Walton and Roy have a very contentious relationship now, shown through Roy’s hindrance to visiting his brother when in his section of the building. Fred Walton is significant because he discovered what Roy Walton had done after breaking into the office computers and looking up confidential information. He uses his knowledge of Roy’s felony and leverages it over his head. Essentially, he offers an ultimatum: Fred will keep quiet, so long as Roy does too. Plus, Roy now owes Fred. "
"<s>The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deckupon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and abank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeekhad piled up an impressive collection of data.     While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New factspoured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.     Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton, a white-smocked techniciansaid. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one facelessand without personality, but always ready to serve. Is there anythingI can do?     I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?     Not at all, sir. Go right ahead.     Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practicallybacked out of his presence.       No doubt I must radiate charisma     , he thought. Within the building hewore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham'sprotégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of thecrowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly tohimself.     Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip,wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.     A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotroniccircuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnersontubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and ayellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:       3216847AB1         PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, NewYork. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. atbirth 5lb. 3oz.       An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, endingwith blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern,codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to thenotification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at thebottom of the card:       EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332        EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED       He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably stillsomewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.     Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber deliveredHappysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to savePhilip Prior.     He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slippedthe baby's card into his breast pocket.     That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of thegene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth,and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish onPhillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted:      3f2,tubercular-prone     .     He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to themachine.      Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter inall circuits.       He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol      3f2     and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version.The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.     Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customarypause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.     The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned,Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.     He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before thismorning's haul of unfortunates was put away.     Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctorswithout attracting too much attention to himself in the process?  <doc-sep>     MASTER       of Life and Death       by     ROBERT SILVERBERG     ACE BOOKS     A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc.     23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.     MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH     Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc.     All Rights Reserved     For Antigone—     Who Thinks We're Property     Printed in U.S.A.     [Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any     evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES     By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion.Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unlessprompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce thosemeasures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soonfound himself the most hated man in the world.     For it was      his     job to tell parents their children were unfit to live;      he     had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remoteareas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens,denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make adecision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies,become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly.In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?      CAST OF CHARACTERS     ROY WALTON     He had to adopt the motto—      the ends justify the means     .     FITZMAUGHAM     His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.     FRED WALTON     His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimatedtheir size.     LEE PERCY     His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.     PRIOR     With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?     DR. LAMARRE     He died for discovering the secret of immortality.      Contents      I     The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly knownas Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floorsof the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical oftwenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. RoyWalton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himselfeach morning as he entered the hideous place.     Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—onthe twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—butthat had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnantbuilding. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, thoughnecessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, theBureau did not rate attractive quarters.     So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping thattrimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changedthe massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But themark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building andoffice.     Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the lastcentury's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.     His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving viapneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator wasa thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as DirectorFitzMaugham, and half the pay.     He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinklypaper carefully, and read it.     It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty inPatagonia. It was dated      4 June 2232     , six days before, and after along and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on tosay,      Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, farbelow optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.       Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, Memofrom Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ... He paused,picking a trouble-spot at random, ... central Belgium. Will thesection chief in charge of this area please consider the advisabilityof transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia?Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to easetransition.     He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of lightshot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered bythe multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousandBelgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of DirectorFitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims,      If you want to stay sane, think ofthese people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.       Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history ofhumanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmatein a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only solong, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, beforetrouble came.     There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up thevoicewrite again. Memo from the assistant administrator, reestablishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staffof three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminatingirrelevant data.     It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now,with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. Oneof the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established sosuddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.     He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet ofthe Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. Duringthe past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandardadults had been sent on to Happysleep.     That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialedthe report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.     The annunciator chimed.     I'm busy, Walton said immediately.     There's a Mr. Prior to see you, the annunciator's calm voice said.He insists it's an emergency.     Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours. Waltonstared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. Tell him hecan have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300.     Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outeroffice, and then the annunciator said, He insists he must see youimmediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment.     Commitments are irrevocable, Walton said heavily. The last thing inthe world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had justbeen committed. Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all.     Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edgeof his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in thisugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to      see     one of those people and try to convince him of the need—     The door burst open.     A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through andpaused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind himcame three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security.They carried drawn needlers.     Are you Administrator Walton? the big man asked, in an astonishinglydeep, rich voice. I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior.     The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One ofthem turned apologetically to Walton. We're terribly sorry about this,sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got inhere, but he did.     Ah—yes. So I noticed, Walton remarked drily. See if he's planningto assassinate anybody, will you?     Administrator Walton! Prior protested. I'm a man of peace! How canyou accuse me of—     One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urgeto reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.     Search him, Walton said.     They gave Prior an efficient going-over. He's clean, Mr. Walton.Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?     Neither. Leave him here with me.     Are you sure you—     Get out of here, Walton snapped. As the three security men slinkedaway, he added, And figure out some more efficient system forprotecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through hereand get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it'ssimply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the worldwho'd take this job. Now      get out     !     They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closedand jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was whollyunjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulationsprescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admitthat to the guards.     Take a seat, Mr. Prior.     I have to thank you for granting me this audience, Prior said,without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. I realize you're aterribly busy man.     I am. Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton'sdesk since Prior had entered. You're very lucky to have hit thepsychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd havehad you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a littlediversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior.     Thank you. Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding aman. I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—     That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're gropingfor?     Prior reddened. Yes, he admitted.     Grinning, Walton said, I have to do      something     when I go home atnight. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. Nomore than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quiteremarkable.     The critics didn't, Prior said diffidently.     Critics! What do they know? Walton demanded. They swing in cycles.Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize.Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr.Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is.Take Yeats, for instance—     Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Priorback to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand,anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.     Mr. Walton....     Yes?     My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now....     Walton understood. No, Prior. Please don't ask. Walton's skin feltcold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.     He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular.The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—     Walton rose.       No     , he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. Don'task me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You'rean intelligent man; you understand our program.     I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and theEuthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—     You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for      other     people. So dideveryone else, Walton said. That's how the act was passed. Tenderlyhe said, I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give ababy every chance to live.           I     was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practicedeuthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?     It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipeit out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetictraits.     Meaning you'll kill any children I have? Prior asked.     Those who inherit your condition, Walton said gently. Go home, Mr.Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to dothe impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you.     Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodinglyat Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Waltonfeared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in hisupper left desk drawer.     But Prior had no violence in him. I'll leave you, he said somberly.I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us.     Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again andslipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of thechute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were threebasilisks.     In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had beenticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate geneshad been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had beensterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their gravesahead of time.     It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborngenerations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormalprogeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain,consuming precious food?     Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and histeam succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-lightoutfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done aboutEarth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure wasstill growing.     Prior's words haunted him.      I was tubercular ... where would my poemsbe now?       The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had beentubercular too.       What good are poets?     he asked himself savagely.     The reply came swiftly:      What good is anything, then?     Keats,Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. Howmuch duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturinghis bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of aone-room home.     Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.     The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if headmitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, itwould be a criminal act.     But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.     Prior's baby.     With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, If thereare any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office forthe next half-hour.      II     He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outeroffice was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, openingletters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them intothe hallway.     There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward thelift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeekwas organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for thesecond-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of asingle child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was strikingas effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had broughtabout repeal of the entire Equalization Law.     Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child,and after that I'll keep within the law.     He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. Theclinic was on the twentieth floor.     Roy.     At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise.He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stoodthere.     Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham.     The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly,his mop of white hair bright and full. You look preoccupied, boy.Something the matter?     Walton shook his head quickly. Just a little tired, sir. There's beena lot of work lately.     As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeekworked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaughamhad striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, atthe age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of savingmankind from itself.     The director smiled. You never did learn how to budget your strength,Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm gladyou're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning,though. Mind if I join you?     I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs.     Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?     No, Mr. FitzMaugham. Walton felt as though he'd already been tried,drawn, and quartered. It requires personal attention.     I see. The deep, warm eyes bored into his. You ought to slow down alittle, I think.     Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little.     FitzMaugham chuckled. In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraidyou'll never learn how to relax, my boy.     The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Directorto enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed      Fourteen     ; there wasa coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed      twenty     , coveringthe panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see hisdestination.     As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, Did Mr. Prior come tosee you this morning?     Yes, Walton said.     He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?     That's right, sir, Walton said tightly.     He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What wason his mind?     Walton hesitated. He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep.Naturally, I had to turn him down.     Naturally, FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. Once we make even oneexception, the whole framework crumbles.     Of course, sir.     The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back,revealing a neat, gleaming sign:       FLOOR 20        Euthanasia Clinic and Files       Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoidedtraveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seemnakedly obvious now.     The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. I guess you get off here,he said. I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You reallyshould take some time off for relaxation each day.     I'll try, sir.     Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as thedoor closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.       Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! Anddamn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!       Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deepbreath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasiafiles were kept.  <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.     You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had.     But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way.     And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification.     Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn.     Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and      only     the human race.     I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself.     It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.     Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden.     Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.     We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you.     The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested.  <doc-sep></s>","Philip Prior is the son of Lyle Prior and Ava Leonard Prior. He was born small, a little over 5 pounds, and carries the gene for tuberculosis. Within this new society, this genetic mutation means that Philip Prior has to be euthanized and sent to Happysleep. At only two weeks old, he has been sentenced to death. His father, Lyle Prior the poet, comes to the office of Roy Walton to try and save his son’s life. Although he is unsuccessful at first, his words about what his son could become stuck with Roy and caused him to save Philip’s life. Philip Prior is incredibly significant because his life and sentencing caused Roy Walton to make the first crack in the framework, commit a felony by saving his life, and potentially sentence himself to a failed career and life. "
"<s>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry.     In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend.     As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes.     I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of      him     . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway.     Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it.     Salvation shook his head.     That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!     B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends!     Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder!     Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy.     He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?     I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled.     The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd      better     keep a sharp lookout!     He turned to the      perilens     once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen—     Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—!     He pressed the plunger that transferred the      perilens     image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.     And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.           The Lorelei!       <doc-sep></s>","Chip Warren and his crew of Salvation Smith, a righteous missionary, and Syd Palmer, mechanic, have landed in the Belt on their spaceship Chickadee II after discovering a mountain of ekalastron, a highly sought-after material. Their new fortune is cause for celebration, so Chip picks out a flashy tie, which Syd and Salvation both make fun of him for, and sets off to get a drink. Syd and Salvation do not join him, as the repairmen were still encasing their ship with ekalastron. The asteroid Danae has a gravity that’s modeled after Earth, a good atmosphere, and features a wide variety of interplanetary species. Chip walks into Xu’ul’s Solarest and strolls past all the charm-gals, busy cabarets, and the native sing-stomp, before arriving in an empty, private bar. The Martian bartender serves him a new bottle of Scotch but is quickly frightened when a member of the Space Patrol steps in and accuses Chip of murder. The Martian runs off before the cop reveals himself to be Johnny Haldane, Chip’s old friend. After catching up briefly, Chip tells Johnny about their find on Titania and explains that they turned it all over to the Space Patrol, before visiphoning Earth. At this, Johnny becomes upset and explains that their message could have been intercepted by the mythic Lorelei. Chip laughs him off, but Johnny explains that for the past two months a beautiful blonde woman has been luring spacemen to their doom and stealing all their cargo. They decide to take on the Lorelei together, especially now that the Chickadee will be plated with ekalastron, an impenetrable material. Johnny claims he knows one of Lorelei’s men is on Danae right now getting more supplies, so they could follow him back to their base. As he says that, Johnny saves Chip by throwing him to the floor and sacrificing himself. He is killed by an assailant with a scar on his face. Chip tries to save his friend, but the bartender rushes back in with a horde of people, claiming Chip is the murder. Chip runs away, chasing after the true killer, but loses him. He runs back to the Chickadee, and they quickly take off, even though the plating was only halfway finished. Syd and Salvation question him, and he explains the situation, as they follow the scarred man to the Bog, an extremely dangerous asteroid-ridden area. As Chip attempts to look through the perilens, a beautiful woman pops up, crying for help: the Lorelei. Chaos ensues, and they try to get her off their transmission, while a blast rocks the hull. The Chickadee crashed, and Chip wakes up to see a large man standing above him. He and his men question Chip about the ekalastron, but Chip won’t reveal its location. The story ends with the pirate threatening to torture Chip. "
"<s>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       <doc-sep>It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him.     Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.     What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong?     He said, Have you seen the news recently?     She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?     You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?     She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What—     I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner?     Yes, of course. But really, Pete—     You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei.     She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud.     A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance.     Lorelei caught her breath.     It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone.     There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony.     The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.  <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry.     In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend.     As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes.     I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of      him     . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway.     Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it.     Salvation shook his head.     That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!     B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends!     Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder!     Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy.     He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?     I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled.     The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd      better     keep a sharp lookout!     He turned to the      perilens     once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen—     Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—!     He pressed the plunger that transferred the      perilens     image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.     And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.           The Lorelei!       <doc-sep></s>","The Lorelei was first an ancient myth that plagued all spacemen. It was a Teutonic myth, similar to the sirens of ancient Greece, about a gorgeous blonde woman who combed her hair and sang to those around her. Her position on the rock lured all the men to their doom, as they would crash around her. That is where the Lorelei originated. In this turn of events, the story has evolved into a present-day pirating crew using the original myth to draw spacemen in. For the past two months, according to Space Patrolman Johnny Haldane, a pirate crew has a beautiful blonde woman calling for help to lure at least a dozen spaceships in before they kill the crew and capture all of their cargo. The pirates then turn on all of the control locks and send the empty ships back out, as they have no space for them in their current base. The Lorelei and her crew intercepted Chip’s message about the ekalastron and set their sights on his ship as their next target. "
"<s>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry.     In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend.     As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes.     I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of      him     . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway.     Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it.     Salvation shook his head.     That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!     B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends!     Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder!     Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy.     He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?     I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled.     The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd      better     keep a sharp lookout!     He turned to the      perilens     once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen—     Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—!     He pressed the plunger that transferred the      perilens     image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.     And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.           The Lorelei!       <doc-sep>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And—           Johnny!      Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did      you     dropfrom?     The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp.     I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you?     We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and—     Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!     You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare!  [1]     Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market?     Warren shook his head.     Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo—     Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned?     Why—why, yes.     From where?     Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong?     Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything      wrong     , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei!  <doc-sep></s>","Johnny Haldane is a member of the Space Patrol and one of Chip’s old friends. They talk briefly about their previous adventures and running into each other all across space, which speaks highly of their close bond. He arrives on Dandae to track one of the Lorelei’s crew, hoping to follow him all the way back to their hideout. However, while there, he runs into Chip and makes a grand entrance, accusing him of murder. This causes the bartender to scurry away, so they sit and talk in private while nursing a bottle of scotch. After chatting for a bit, Chip reveals to Johnny that his crew found a mountain of ekalastron and they gave it back to the Space Patrol, as private users might have abused the material. All is well and good until Johnny hears that Chip used his visiphone to get in touch with Earth authorities, which Johnny immediately protests. Evidently, the Lorelei tracks people through visiphone messages and could have intercepted his. They decide to take on the Lorelei together, tracking the crew member back to their base and using Chip’s newly-plated ship for protection. However, before they can move, a man comes in with a scar on his face and shoots at the two of them. Johnny saves Chip’s life by pushing him out of the way but is killed by the blast. "
"<s>Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, itseemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scamperedfrom his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance.Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined hisfeatures. And—           Johnny!      Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did      you     dropfrom?     The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with abone-grinding handclasp.     I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we'vecrossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, youcould have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Sydstill with you?     We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crewis plating our crate with ek, and—     Ek! Plating a private cruiser! Haldane stared at him in astonishment,then whistled. Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits tobe able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!     You, boasted Chip, ain't heard nothing yet! And he told him howthey had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.It was touch-and-go for a while, he admitted, whether we'd be theluckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through theflaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here weare!  [1]     Haldane was exuberant. A mountain of ekalastron! he gloated.That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs'velocity-intensifier! It was no overstatement. Element No. 97 was ametal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat theentire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film ofit would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds toash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would reboundlike rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on theopen market?     Warren shook his head.     Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—andwe decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be madeavailable. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control ofthe mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earthauthorities we were bringing in one cargo—     Visiphoned! interrupted Haldane sharply. Did you say visiphoned?     Why—why, yes.     From where?     Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strongtransmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did wedo something that was wrong?     Haldane frowned worriedly. I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything      wrong     , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message wasintercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei!  <doc-sep>Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand herewith an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute Ithought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is amyth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out inthe middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks,warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction.     He grunted. A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of thisalleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sadstory. He started to sing. '      Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten     —'     The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.     It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That'show she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly luresspace-mariners to their death.     The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere inthe Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercisingher vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Sincethen, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even onePatrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have beenbrutally murdered, their cargos stolen.     Wait a minute! interrupted Chip shrewdly. How do you know about herif the crews have been murdered?     She has a habit of locking the controls, explained Haldane, andsetting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on herhideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships wassalvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and herpirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. Hedescribed her. His description goes perfectly with less accurateglimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!     Chip said soberly, So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. Ithought you were pulling my leg. Where do      I     come into this mess,though?     Ekalastron! grunted Johnny succinctly. A jackpot prize for anycorsair! And you      advertised     a cargo of it over the etherwaves! TheLorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The onlything for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as youcan get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—     A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmerwould have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was abright, hard, reckless light.     Hold your jets, Johnny! drawled Chip. Aren't you forgetting onething? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her wholemob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the      Chickadee     , becauseit's being plated right now!     Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.     By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the      Chickadee's     hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurryto reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei      together     ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the      Chickadee     and—     It's a deal! declared Chip promptly. You got any idea where thisLorelei's hangout is?     That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei'smen put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single himout somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in thatway—      Chip! Look out!       <doc-sep>   THE LORELEI DEATH     by NELSON S. BOND     Far out in limitless Space she plied     her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the     void, beckoning spacemen to death and     destruction with her beautiful siren lure.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1941.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship      Chickadee II     , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too—     He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly.     There! How do you like      that     ?     Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder.     Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!     You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do      you     think of it, Padre?     Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is      some     Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—'     Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!     Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours!     Syd chuckled.     O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!     Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I      would     becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all—     The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped.     That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun!     Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along?     No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em.     O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!     And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the      Chickadee     onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.  <doc-sep></s>","Ekalastron is the element No. 97 on the period table. It is an incredibly valuable material due to its properties. It’s an incredibly light metal, and yet it is also impenetrable. Johnny claims that it’s strong enough that a simple film of ekalastron would deflect an entire meteor. Of course, because of this, any amount of ekalastron could make a person very wealthy. Chip and his crew find an entire mountain of ekalastron on the chilly Titania, a satellite off of Uranus. They decided to turn over their find to the Uranus Space Patrol, and then let the Earth authorities know that they were bringing in some cargo. "
"<s>   THE LORELEI DEATH     by NELSON S. BOND     Far out in limitless Space she plied     her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the     void, beckoning spacemen to death and     destruction with her beautiful siren lure.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1941.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall ofthe spaceship      Chickadee II     , stared at what he saw reflectedtherefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too—     He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about hisneck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter,gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted agrunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companionstriumphantly.     There! How do you like      that     ?     Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, alwayslanguid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problemconcerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moanedinsultingly and forced a shudder.     Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!     You, Chip told him serenely, have no appreciation of beauty. What do      you     think of it, Padre?     Salvation Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black,a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing hisweathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. Well,my boy, he admitted, there is      some     Biblical precedent foryour—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coatwhich was of many colors—'     Both of you, declared Chip, give me a pain in the pants!Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months,cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make usrich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!     Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party thelikes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in thewindow, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma'hours!     Syd chuckled.     O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-jointentertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!     Salvation said soberly, Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I      would     becareful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of lawand order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization aswell as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violentand unheeding the words of Him who rules all—     The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip thatSalvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries whoespoused the principle of turning the other cheek to evildoers.Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutlyreligious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken uponhimself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the Godhe worshipped.     That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God ofanger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvationsometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvationacknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to bethe best hand with a gun!     Now Chip gave quiet answer. I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well,Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along?     No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing thisjalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em.     O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!     And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the      Chickadee     onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.  <doc-sep>Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint ofscarlet which marked the course of his quarry.     In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told hisfriends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, SalvationSmith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. Awoman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet— Andwhen he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in themissionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, whitefists. Said Syd, A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooneror later. And when we do— His tone boded no good to the man who hadslain an old and loved friend.     As a matter of fact, offered Salvation, we've got him now. Any timeyou say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on himin five minutes.     I know, nodded Warren grimly. But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowinga bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon asI'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of      him     . But our firstand most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway.     Syd said, That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as muchas the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictlyspeaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the SpacePatrol, let them take care of it.     Salvation shook his head.     That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern.So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it'scleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-facedman who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!     B-but— gasped Palmer—b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny wereold buddies. Lifelong friends!     Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt.Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with aflame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chipand accuse him of murder!     Chip said ruefully, That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but itbackfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out ofthere like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we canbring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And thatmay not be so easy.     He stirred restlessly. But we'll cross that bridge when we come toit. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone fartheralready than I expected we would. He turned to the old preacher.Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?     I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, ofcourse, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'dbetter keep a weather-eye peeled.     The Bog! Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before,but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region oftightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the giganticrocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetratethe Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. TheBog! Say! I'd      better     keep a sharp lookout!     He turned to the      perilens     once more, fastened an eye to its lens. Andthen—     Syd! he cried. Salvation! Look! She—she—!     He pressed the plunger that transferred the      perilens     image to thecentral viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area whichshould have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriadglowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, thegolden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide withan indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.     And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.           The Lorelei!       <doc-sep>At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space througha second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's      telaudio     wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual wordsof the girl:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardlytrap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response tothat desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh inhis memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid ofthis lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for,      die     for! A woman like no other in the universe.     Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from thetempting shadow, cried: Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens onanother beam, Syd!     Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the      perilens     .Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded indevising a transparent medium through which to view the void whereinhe soared; the      perilens     was a device which translated impinginglight-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull.When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequencycould be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted.     But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—theimage persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figurebeckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of thatheart-tugging voice:           Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help     —     Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previouslyhave held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldlyupon him, and his brow became dark with anger.           We're blanketed!     Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm!Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three Northand loft ... fire No. 3 jet....     He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; nowhis fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The      Chickadee     groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thingas he thrust it into a rising spiral.     It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, itwas certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; theflaming jets of the      Chickadee     must form a crimson arch against blackspace visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any wayof knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic deathmight loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot ofblindness, clear their instruments....     And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prowof the      Chickadee     like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of hisbucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above thegrinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of SalvationSmith:     We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—'     Then Syd's angry cry, Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with atractor-blast!     Chip stared at his companion numbly.     But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannoncouldn't hurt us—           Half-plated!      howled Syd savagely. And those damn fools startedworking from the stern of the      Chickadee     ! We're vulnerable up front,and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like asieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip!     He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore themhastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the      perilens     vernier. Nogood! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them tocertain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates airwas seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, aman had to keep on fighting.     He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls thatanswered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was nowangrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing burststhat had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his whitehair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold.     'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!' he cried, 'who loose theirstealth upon me like a thief from the night—'     Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. Thestraining      Chickadee     stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist.Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertiaflung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studstook the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples,and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning.     For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescentstars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hairwas a golden glory....     After that—nothing!  <doc-sep></s>","Salvation Smith is a highly-religious man and a missionary. However, his god is not a gentle one. Salvation Smith is a scarecrow of a man, tall and lean, who dresses in all black with wavy gray hair. He believed in spreading the word of Yahveh of the Old Testament and took his words to heart. Salvation did not turn away from evil, in fact, he was one of the best shooters in space. Salvation Smith stays behind with Syd Palmer at the beginning of the story, after wisely warning Chip to be careful during his night on the town. Chip and Syd both respect Salvation for his knowledge, faith, and strength, so he is usually listened to. In the end, Salvation helps Chip escape from the authorities and men wrongfully pursuing him and tries to save them from destruction when they encounter the Lorelei. However, the story ends without a complete resolution for Salvation. The readers are unsure if he survived the crash, or if he’d been taken hostage by the pirates. Salvation Smith is often a voice of reason, as well as a great companion throughout the story. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   CONTAGION     By KATHERINE MacLEAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a     thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food,     perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.      It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows.     The hunt party of the      Explorer     filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds.     A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired.     Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest.     Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck.     This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly.     Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","The story begins with the Explorer ship landing on an unknown planet. The ships inhabitants are careful of any potential diseases and so do not readily disembark to explore their new surroundings. Instead, they send a crew of four medical doctors to go on a hunt party to understand the types of pathogens on the planet. The four doctors in the hunt party are June Walton, George Barton, Hal Barton, and Max. George and Hal are brothers. Max and June are in a relationship together. They walk through the forest, shooting different animals that they encounter to test for diseases. As they walk through the forest, they encounter a man who speaks English. His name is Patrick Mead and he introduces the party to the planet, known as Minos. The man explains how his group was 300 miles away from their ship.  Patrick and the group asks questions of each other. Patrick notes that he is shocked to see a variety of different looking people as those on Minos all look very similar to each other. The group and Pat all head back to the ship where they explain to Pat that he has to go through a process of decontamination. They begin by taking specimen from Pat and spinal fluid samples from him. Pat then continues on to the rest of the decontamination process that the others do not have to go through. While Pat is going through decontamination, so is the rest of the doctors – but in a different process. During June’s process, she is seen admiring her body. Once they are done, they go to the dining hall to eat. A woman asks the doctors when they will be able to let out of the ship to explore the new land, and Max answers that it might happen soon. Many people are excited about the possibility because they have all been isolated in space for the past year and a half. When they enter the cafeteria, they can hear passengers excitedly gossiping about Pat’s arrival. As soon as pat enters the room, people approach him eagerly awaiting to talk to him. During the meal, Pat explains how a geneticist on the planet adapted the citizens’ cells to their planet so that they would not destroy the planet foraging for food. During the conversation over food, Hall enters the room to inform them that the hamsters showed signs of infection. This means that Pat’s people still do carry the disease, the morning sickness. Pat assures them that his people would be willing to be de-infected. The crew then send Reno Ulrich to go to Pat’s town to make relations with the people.After eating, June goes back to the laboratory. She sees Pat and the beautiful Shelia Davenport walking in her direction. She mockingly acknowledges his presence when he walks past her.  "
"<s>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map.     We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come.     Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D.     Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore.     The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel.     What—what is the population of Minos? she asked.     He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly.     Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired.     Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied.     They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.     I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them.     Joke? Max asked, bewildered.     June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us.     She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead?     He indicated her with a smile. Like you.     June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes.     In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme?     Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable.     For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague.     Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.     Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look.       Plague.     What was the disease? Hal Barton asked.     Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it.     You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.     Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow.     Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton.     No.     Any other diseases?     Not a one.     Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!  <doc-sep>Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry.     Why? Len was aggrieved.     Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Differentamino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in thecarbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here untilyou are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till thenyou'd starve to death on a full stomach.     Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays,but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to oneside. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn.     Test-tube evolution? Max repeated. What's that? I thought you peoplehad no doctors.     It's a story. Pat leaned back again. Alexander P. Mead, the head ofthe Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personalityand no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggleof killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling theface of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decidedthat he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He didit all right.'     Did which? asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear.     Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells—  <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully.     Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it.     Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have.     Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics.     Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest.     You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead.     Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm.     Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth.     High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones:     What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat.     Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest.     The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air.     We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet.     If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease.     Starting with me? Pat asked.     Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard.     More needles?     Yes, and a few little extras thrown in.     Rough?     It isn't easy.     A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs.     In the      Explorer     , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name.     But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient.     Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions.     Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes.     All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him.  <doc-sep></s>","Upon meeting Patrick, June makes note of his tall frame and how his appearance resembles her own. She seems to admire his looks. She in turn feels guilty as Max, her partner, seems to not compare well to Patrick in her own eyes. She also notes that Max is frailer than Pat. Back on the ship, June admires herself during the spacesuit decontamination process. Evident from Max’s reaction, it is unusual for her to do so in such a manner. It is hinted that Pat’s appearance prompted her examination. Further, into the story, June begins to express more uneasiness with Max’s figure. She also does not appear to like that so many women are giving Pat a lot of attention. She continues to feel guilty as she sees her feelings toward Pat as being disloyal to Max, who she thinks she loves. She again shows her jealously when Pat is seen walking down a hallway with Shelia Davenport, who June herself describes as gorgeous. "
"<s>June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against thetree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion milesof monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was alreadysettled! We didn't know there was a colony here, she said. It is noton the map.     We were afraid of that, the tall bronze man answered soberly. Wehave been here three generations and yet no traders have come.     Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. My nameis Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., andGeorge Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D.     Patrick Mead is the name, smiled the man, shaking hands casually.Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicosbefore.     The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove Junecould feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as paddedsteel.     What—what is the population of Minos? she asked.     He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. Onlyone hundred and fifty. He smiled. Don't worry, this isn't a cityplanet yet. There's room for a few more people. He shook hands withthe Bartons quickly. That is—you are people, aren't you? he askedstartlingly.     Why not? said Max with a poise that June admired.     Well, you are all so—so— Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across thefaces of the group. So varied.     They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.     I mean, Patrick Mead said into the silence, all these—interestingdifferent hair colors and face shapes and so forth— He made a vaguewave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not toinsult them.     Joke? Max asked, bewildered.     June laid a hand on his arm. No harm meant, she said to him over theintercom. We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us.     She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. Whatshould a person look like, Mr. Mead?     He indicated her with a smile. Like you.     June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her owndescription. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles,like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightlyhumorous blue eyes.     In other words, she said, everyone on the planet looks like you andme?     Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not thinkthat people could have different colored hair or that noses could fitso many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but Isuppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upsidedown! He laughed and sobered. But then why wear spacesuits? The airis breathable.     For safety, June told him. We can't take any chances on plague.     Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and thewind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to takeoff the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins.Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.     Plague, Pat Mead said thoughtfully. We had one here. It came twoyears after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Meadfamilies. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're allrelated, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only waypeople can look.       Plague.     What was the disease? Hal Barton asked.     Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the meltingsickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what todo about it.     You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization forsome. A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.     Pat Mead explained patiently, Our ship, with the power plant and allthe books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion,and never came back. The crew must have died. Long years of hardshipwere indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power goneand machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replacethem. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knifeand bow.     Any recurrence of melting sickness? asked Hal Barton.     No.     Any other diseases?     Not a one.     Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approachingawe. Do you think all the Meads look like that? he said to June onthe intercom. I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!  <doc-sep>May I go aboard? Pat asked hopefully.     Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpetof plants that covered the ground and began to open it.     Tests first, Hal Barton said. We have to find out if you peoplestill carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbeyou and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll beno good as a check for what the other Meads might have.     Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles andhypodermics.     Are you going to jab me with those? Pat asked with interest.     You're just a specimen animal to me, bud! Max grinned at Pat Mead,and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, thetall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt astab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for beingsmaller and frailer than Pat Mead.     Lie down, Max told him, and hold still. We need two spinal fluidsamples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from thearm.     Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbedand inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a finenerve surgeon on Earth.     High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the shipand angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly,it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily fromtheir earphones:     What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there? Hebanked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June couldsee his startled face looking through the glass at Pat.     Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly andpointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flewaway over the odd-colored forest.     The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you gotthrough to us, Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Maxdexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottleswithout exposing them to air.     We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they stillcarry melting sickness, Max added. You might be immune so it doesn'tshow on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—towipe out a planet.     If you do carry melting sickness, said Hal Barton, we won't be ableto mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease.     Starting with me? Pat asked.     Starting with you, Max told him ruefully, as soon as you step onboard.     More needles?     Yes, and a few little extras thrown in.     Rough?     It isn't easy.     A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuitdecontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed inglares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that andcompared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs.     In the      Explorer     , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers,was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymesso like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it causedchemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothingcould live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder tothe body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name.     But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues hadbeen known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by humantreatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways andinterplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guardingagainst disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient.     Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around andaround like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stallby peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, orderedto insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, givensolutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonicblasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, beingdirected to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesizedand injected with various immunizing solutions.     Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extremedryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids weredripped into his veins through long thin tubes.     All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken ofallowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him.  <doc-sep>Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back tothe ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothingnow to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the meltingsickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions.     The polished silver and black column of the      Explorer     seemed to risehigher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetryblurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among thetrees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up.     Nice! said Pat. Beautiful! The admiration in his voice was warming.     It was a yacht, Max said, still looking up, second hand, an old-timebeauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control boardand murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but itbrought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years.Plenty good enough.     The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized thathe had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, neverexperienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos.  <doc-sep></s>","The melting sickness is described as a type of plague by Pat. He informs the doctors that it arrived soon after the colony settled on the planet and killed all but one particular familiar which happened to be immune to the disease. The disease is described as being brutal and not even doctors were able to avoid it. According to Pat, there has not been any recurrence of the melting sickness and no other diseases to note. "
"<s>The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth.     The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then.     The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive.     Male?     Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell.     It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em.     It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much?     Thirty thousand credits.     Why, that's three times the usual rate!     The other will pay five times the usual rate.     Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do.  <doc-sep>For me, it was a nightmare. I lay down in my cabin and thought. I hadto think things through very carefully. One mistake was too many forme. My worst fear had been that someday I would overlook one tiny flawand ruin a gem. Now I might have ruined an exploration and destroyed aman, not a stone, because I had missed the flaw.     No one but a reckless fool would have gone out alone on a strangeplanet with a terrifying phenomenon, but I'd had enough evidence to seethat space exploration      made     a man a reckless fool by doing things onone planet he had once found safe and wise on some other world.     The thought intruded itself:      why     hadn't I recognized this before Ilet Quade escape to almost certain death? Wasn't it because I wantedhim dead, because I resented the crew's resentment of my authority, andrecognized in him the leader and symbol of this resentment?     I threw away that idea along with my half-used cigarette. It might verywell be true, but how did that help now?     I had to      think     .     I was going after him, that was certain. Not only for humanereasons—he was the most important member of the crew. With him around,there were only two opinions, his and mine. Without him, I'd haveendless opinions to contend with.     But it wouldn't do any good to go out no better equipped than he.There was no time to wait for tractors to be built if we wanted toreach him alive, and we certainly couldn't reach him five or tenmiles out with our three miles of safety line. We would have to go inspacesuits.     But how would that leave us any better off than Quade?     Why was Quade vulnerable in his spacesuit, as I knew from experience hewould be?     How could we be less vulnerable, or preferably invulnerable?  <doc-sep>   CONTAGION     By KATHERINE MacLEAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a     thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food,     perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.      It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows.     The hunt party of the      Explorer     filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds.     A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired.     Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest.     Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck.     This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly.     Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.  <doc-sep></s>","Potential pathogens are of grave concern to the members of the Explorer. To ensure their safety, they send out a hunting party of medical doctors to gather data on the diseases present on the planet Minos. The doctors wear protective gear during this trip. When they bring Pat back to their ship, they require him to go through tests before he is allowed onto the ship. They include needing to de-microbe him and taking specimens from him. Max takes spinal fluid samples from Pat during this process. Pat then went through a long process where he was guided by mechanical voices to go through many different stages of decontamination. While the group of doctors do not have to go through the same process as Pat to board the ship, they go through their own decontamination process. There is a stall for spacesuit decontamination that shoots out disinfectants and baths of ultraviolet radiation for sterilization. The ship was also governed by interplanetary health laws. These laws demanded that ship equipment protecting against diseases had to be completely mechanical in operation and efficient. "
"<s>   CONTAGION     By KATHERINE MacLEAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a     thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food,     perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.      It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. Theforest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and awind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leafshadows.     The hunt party of the      Explorer     filed along the narrow trail, gunsready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar criesof strange birds.     A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun hadbeen fired.     Got anything? asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried hervoice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of theforest.     Took a shot at something, explained George Barton's cheerful voicein her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Bartonstanding peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. It lookedlike a duck.     This isn't Central Park, said Hal Barton, his brother, coming intosight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against thebronze and red forest. They won't all look like ducks, he saidsoberly.     Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon,June, came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. Not while I stilllove you. He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, andtouched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barelyvisible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck agreenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.  <doc-sep>    A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too.       A BOTTLE OF       Old Wine       By Richard O. Lewis     Illustrated by KELLY FREAS  <doc-sep>They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship      Explorer     towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people ofthe ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight andclouds, and they longed to be outside.     But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death,for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might belike Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough tobe impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonieshad vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of shipswhich had touched on some plague planet.     The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtightspacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion.     The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through thealien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among thecopper and purple shadows.     They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darkerbrowns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind hersomeone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a holein the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved.     This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful,humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head tallerthan any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stoodbreathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hunga sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder.     They lowered their guns.     It needs a shave, Max said reasonably in their earphones, and hereached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice beheard. Something we could do for you, Mac?     The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forestsounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic ofevolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not bewearing a three day growth of red stubble.     Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. Welcome toMinos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria.     English? gasped June.     We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word toyou.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane passtwice, but we couldn't attract its attention.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins with the ship, the Explorer, landing on an unknown planet. It has an Earth-like forest in the fall. The leaves were of various colors, green, copper, purple, and red. To get to this planet, known as Minos, it took 36 light-years from Earth. The ship they traveled on is described as being like a silver and black column. It was previously a yacht that was retrofitted to become the Explorer. They take Pat back to the ship and they all decontaminate. Once they are done, they go to the dining hall for food. After eating their food in the dining, June and some of the other doctors return to the laboratory to inspect the mice. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob!     I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move.     I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it.     How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy.     Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die?     We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet.     Well?     Probably he's immortal.     And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically.     Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures.     But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now.     Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now.  <doc-sep>Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.     Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:     The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him.     This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him.     He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage.     Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces.     The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen.     Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.     Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?     Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.     The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic.     Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.     Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once.     But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like,      we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure     —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We      can't     go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.     Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent.     Yes, sir. But not in our way.     But in      a     way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report.     Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously.     The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.     There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him.     Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject.     But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically.     —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies      now     .  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins with Sim being born in a cold cave. He’s wailing with tears while his mom feverishly feeds him. Even though he is a newborn, he interestingly has some self-awareness. Sim looked around the cave and spotted some old people dying in a graphic, grotesque manner. He raged in angst and his mom moved to soothe him. Suddenly, his father goes to attack him and his mother with a knife. His father wants to kill him as he reasons that there is no reason to live. Sim’s mother begs him not to and tells him to have faith that their son might live longer. After this altercation, Sim notices his sister, Dark, for the first time. Afterwards, he notices that his mother goes through a painful process of aging. Sim cannot seem to find anywhere to look in the cave that is not horrifying to look at and cries himself at these revelations. Because the people on this planet age incredibly fast, Sim goes through a lot of understanding and self-thought during the first day of his life. Eventually, the next day arrives. As an avalanche falls into the valley, Sim’s father takes him and they both jump into the avalanche and are carried by it into the valley. Sim and his family enjoy the valley during the time that it is livable to play within its borders. During this time, Sim’s mother and father become upset as there is a pressing realization that they both will die soon. They all hurriedly return back to their cave as the sun is coming out and would kill them if they are caught in its rays. A young child is caught in the sun’s rays and burned to death. Upon their return, Sim’s mother and father toast icicles to signify their last day. Throughout the day, Sim continues to grow and gain more intelligence. His mother feeds him and lovingly embraces him. Upon their mother’s instruction, Dark takes Sim out into the valley and watches over him. While they are in the valley, the two parents die from old age. In the valley, Sim wonders why no one else asks about the metal seed in the distance that he sees. He thinks it is a potential escape plan. While outside, Sim observes meaning screaming a war rallying cry. When he finds a red berry, a boy named Chion goes and steals it from Sim. Dark slaps the boy and scolds him for stealing the berry. Sim thinks to himself about how he does not understand the fighting nature people have when life is already so short. He then threatens Chion and acknowledges the boy as his new enemy. Dark gives him advice about enemies and friends, how quick they can be made. However, Sim gets distracted with lustful thoughts about a girl that passes him. Dark mentions that she is concerned for his future as he will have to fight Chion. They then both run back to the caves. "
"<s>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church!     Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.     You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice.     Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue.      Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?       The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers.     You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard.     Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here.     Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.     Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most.     My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.     They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings.     I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran—     Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested.     There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me.     I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on.     We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us?     I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she      appreciated     me for it! He winked and nudged.     Oh, said Matheny.  <doc-sep>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.'     Ching?     Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.     Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.     That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony.     He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations....     Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.     I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon.     Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better.     She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting....     How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me      you're     from another time!     Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue.  <doc-sep>Tonight is our last night at      TheSpace Room     . Goon-Face is scowlingagain with the icy fury of aPlutonian monsoon. As Goon-Facehas said, No beeg feedle, no contract.     Without John, we're notes in alost chord.     We've searched everything, inhospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs,hotels. We've hounded spaceportsand 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhereis John Smith.     Ziggy, whose two fingers havehealed, has already bowed to whatseems inevitable. He's signed up forthat trip to Neptune's uraniumpits. There's plenty of room formore volunteers, he tells us. But Ispend my time cussing the guy whoforgot to set the force field at theother end of the hole and let Johnand his      Zloomph     back into his owntime dimension. I cuss harder whenI think how we were robbed of thebest bass player in the galaxy.     And without a corpus delecti wecan't even sue the city.       ... THE END    <doc-sep></s>","The story begins at night when Sim is born. He and his family are inside of the cold cave. The cave had a thick fog in it that originally obscured his dad from view. The cave is where people on the planet spend most of their time. During the two hours of the day that they are able to venture out into the valley, they enjoy the beautiful scenery of greenery until they have to return to their cave tunnels. When the time is up, the sun returns and its rays scorch and kill everything in the valley. "
"<s>All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm.     Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror.     Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion.     He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery.     His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut.     Sunset, said his father, at last.     The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded.     His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering.     His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall.     I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot.     Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch.     Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly.     Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play.     Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence.     Why...?     He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke!     Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said?     I heard, said the mother quietly.     The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move.      IV     The night came and passed and then started the second day.     The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous.     Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk.     At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space?     The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them.     The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair.     Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives.     Another piece of his life opened wide.     Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs.     War!     The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived.     But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?     From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why?     Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry.     Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop.     The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart.     Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong!     Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one?     Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion!     Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy!     Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying:     Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you!     And he vanished around a rock.     More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there?     Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger.     But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame.     She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone.     Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant.     Your name? he shouted after her.     Lyte! she called laughingly back.     I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered.     Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember!     Dark nudged his ribs. Here,      eat     , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her.     From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too!     Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming!     They ran back to the caves.  <doc-sep>  THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT     By RAY BRADBURY     Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day,     cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by     radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the     Ship—if he only dared reach it and     escape! ... but it was more than half an     hour distant—the limit of life itself!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1946.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily.     Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly.     There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet.     Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger.     The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless.     Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die.     Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred.     Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again.     With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs!        With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave.        The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead!     His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for?     No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young!     The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister.     The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone.     The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of      her     life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use?     As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying.     Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn.     The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow.     Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him.     This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite.     It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping.       And he would live exactly eight days.    <doc-sep>The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight      short     days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly.     Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty.     Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child.     This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge.       Because in a few hours they'd be dead.       This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of      long     lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days?     How had his people gotten into such a condition?     As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women.     When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise.     So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape?     His eyes widened, another image came to focus.     Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape.     His mind flexed.     In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage.     The cliff groaned.     Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face.     Dawn's coming, he said.      II     Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche.     The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets.     Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour.     The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous.     Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband.     Sim felt his father crouch, listening.     High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering.     Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out.     An avalanche fell down at them!     Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging.     With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each.     The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh!     Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim!     I may yet, retorted the father.     Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game.     Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain.     The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars.     This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad.     Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why.     The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue.     His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability.  <doc-sep></s>","Dark is the older sister to Sim. When both of their parents die from old age, on the eighth day of their existence, Dark takes over as a carrying role for Sim. She tries her best to impart knowledge to him about friends and enemies. Noticing the interactions Sim is having with other kids his age, she warns him about the violence that his future surely holds due to a new enemy. While she is not his mother and was not born much before him, she does take a protective role. She makes sure he is fed and defends him when he is being bullied. "
"<s>  He was  still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,     Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us.     I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance.     They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them.     But what happened when you met theship?     The space captain grinned.     Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with      water     to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower.     These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up.     They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes.     I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway.     Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from?     The captain shrugged. Who knows?     Jon set two glasses on the table.     Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small.     Don't mind if I do.     The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Planet Stories   July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>class=chap/>    2.     If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, youcan appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when,looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.     Walking upright!     Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!     I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man!Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.     Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realmswithin the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had theliving creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life ofour Earth.     A man!     He might have been creeping on all fours.     He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.     He might have been entirely naked.     He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him Ifelt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but hadmy ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own racea million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life hadsomehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? Bywhat faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever beable to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?     Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell, I said. He's a friend.     Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even knowwhat sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly ormurderous.     There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take myword for it, he's a friend.     I didn't say anything, sir.     Good. Don't. Just get ready.     We're going to go      out     —?     Yes, I said. Orders.     And meet both of them? Split was at the telescope.     Both? I took the instrument from him. Both! Well!     They seem to be coming out of the ground, Split said. I see no signsof habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an undergroundcity—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis.     One's a male and the other's a female, I said.     Another hypothesis, said Split.     The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two friends.They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen ourship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparentlycome up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studiedthem through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for ahike.     The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one mightguess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold,cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of thecream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly inthe breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and thiswas matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as acircular mantle.     The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was somesort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with thesetting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a breakin the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions,his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.     The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere backof her.... Three.... Four.... Five....     Where do they come from? Split had paused in the act of checkingequipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, Imight not have made a discovery. The landscape was      moving     .     The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were aprominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when Ilooked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.     They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where thecrowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the treesthemselves were moving.     Notice anything? I asked Split.     The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city. Hegazed. They're coming from underground.     Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view ofthe moving trees.     Notice anything else unusual? I persisted.     Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they      must     befemales—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows.I wonder why?     You haven't noticed the trees?     The females are quite attractive, said Split.     I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope.Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on otherplanets—sponge-trees—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. Ifthese were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of theslope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paidno attention to them.     I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb.The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. Thelemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the malesand the soft curves of the females.     Those furry elbow ornaments on the females, I said to Split,they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, sothey pad their elbows.     Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on theirshoulders.     Are you complaining?     We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If wewere to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted theirmeeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowingthat people from another world watched. The tall leader must be makinga speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms incalm, graceful gestures.     They'd better break it up! Split said suddenly. The jungles aremoving in on them.     They're spellbound, I said. They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't youever see moving trees?     Split said sharply, Those trees are marching! They're an army undercover. Look!     I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage fora sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were asinnocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edgedwith alarm. Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh!Too late. Look!     All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the headsof the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or moreof them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a widesemicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.  <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church!     Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.     You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice.     Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue.      Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?       The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers.     You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard.     Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here.     Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.     Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most.     My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.     They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings.     I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran—     Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested.     There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me.     I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on.     We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us?     I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she      appreciated     me for it! He winked and nudged.     Oh, said Matheny.  <doc-sep></s>","The planet is strange because of its extremes. The people that live on the planet have to spend most of their time in the caves because during most of the day the sun is too powerful and kills everything that it touches. At night, there is a cold, burning sensation. There are about two hours during the day, dawn and sunset, where the people are able to venture into the valley. During this time, the rivers flow, the flowers bloom, and the people enjoy the livable temperatures outside. Even more strange on the planet is the extreme aging that people go through. People only live 8 days. As a result, they mature, understand, grow, and age at an incredible pace. "
"<s>The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight      short     days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in hismother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formedrapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly.     Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescencewas a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old agean inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty.     Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as hisfather now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child.     This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy everysecond of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge.       Because in a few hours they'd be dead.       This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatalstate hadn't he dreamed of      long     lives, valleys not of blasted stonebut green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed thenthere must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the longlife? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge anddepressing in eight short, vanishing days?     How had his people gotten into such a condition?     As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown acrossspace from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashingon this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women.     When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffsfrom the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of thehuge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upona forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened,two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skinsthickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children wereborn in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all thisworld's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in aweek, leaving children to do likewise.     So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, forhe knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, atelepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the fivethousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myselffrom dying eight days from now? Is there escape?     His eyes widened, another image came to focus.     Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect,unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by theavalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only shipof all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. Butit was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, onthe far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There washis only hope of escape.     His mind flexed.     In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handfulof scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, hemust go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleysand temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distantship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust orage.     The cliff groaned.     Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face.     Dawn's coming, he said.      II     Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time ofthe Avalanche.     The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed witheager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim hearda rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley.Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, fora million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun theirjourney as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in athousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets.     Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour.     The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement totheir lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous.     Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely downthe tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. Therewas a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. Hesensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried,bringing with her the little sister, Dark. Wait! Be careful! shecried to her husband.     Sim felt his father crouch, listening.     High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering.     Now! bellowed his father, and leaped out.     An avalanche fell down at them!     Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. Hismother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging.     With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. Theavalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother andDark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two bouldersthat weighed a hundred pounds each.     The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand.Sim's father burst out into laughter. Made it! By the Gods! Made italive! And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. Pagh!     Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed herhusband. Fool! You might have killed Sim!     I may yet, retorted the father.     Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of anavalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out fromunder a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothingelse to be seen. Someone else had lost the game.     Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain.     The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heavenwas a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, northe bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shiningstars.     This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violenttemperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, andits life moved abroad.     Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of hispeople find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why.     The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawingin the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. Itflowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks.Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips.Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatilecrop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung athis waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim'stongue.     His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledgethirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage,selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. Onething suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mindlike a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time forexplanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burdenof food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Likea bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit,complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grewexcited with his ability.  <doc-sep>  THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT     By RAY BRADBURY     Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day,     cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by     radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the     Ship—if he only dared reach it and     escape! ... but it was more than half an     hour distant—the limit of life itself!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1946.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cavestones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. Hegrew, steadily.     Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. Thenightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grewalert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright,insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He lookedabout, blindly.     There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared.And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dyingface. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man wascrouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side ofhis face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozennight planet.     Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Simpebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavernentrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger,larger.     The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes wereall that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in hiswithered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless.     Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in thetunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die.     Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, theirfaces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. Oneminute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. Thenext minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred.     Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. No, no, she soothedhim, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause herhusband to rise again.     With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across thecave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from hergrasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moistlungs!        With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave.        The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised.It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while stillin his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instantsquestions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended,ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, thedying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim'snew, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can anewborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! Itwas impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hournow. And in the next instant perhaps dead!     His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down theweapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both theirconflicting minds. Let me kill him! shouted the father, breathingharshly, sobbingly. What has he to live for?     No, no! insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was,stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer thanus, and be young!     The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring,eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. Agirl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands toprocure food. His sister.     The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up,weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouthtrembled and jerked. I'll kill you! she said, glaring down at herhusband. Leave my children alone.     The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stonecrib, at the little girl. One-eighth of      her     life's over, already,he gasped. And she doesn't know it. What's the use?     As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured,smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles.She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddlingthe knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in thetunnel, was aging, dying.     Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came tomeet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, hissister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers.He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn.     The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. Feed thechild, he said, exhaustedly. Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is ourlast day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow.     Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him.     This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, thedays were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. Thepeople lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day offlame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong,and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony,barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunsetthe day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livabletemperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns;all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly,birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animallife rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to getits living down in the brief hour of respite.     It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hoursafter birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entirelife in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stonechannels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleepnever, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping.       And he would live exactly eight days.    <doc-sep>All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim couldnot see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds weresufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran likemercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but neverpenetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows ofthe cliff comfortably warm.     Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he foughtwith mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His fatherseemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is whatwill happen to me soon, though Sim in terror.     Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movementsof his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing,feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word waslove. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, asmell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him,the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes,then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in herbrain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushinghim, rushing him along toward oblivion.     He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of hiscells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones andsinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain atbirth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instantlater, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patternedin a million crevices of thought and discovery.     His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children,forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had noappetite, her eyes were webbed shut.     Sunset, said his father, at last.     The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded.     His mother arose. I want to see the outside world once more ... justonce more.... She stared blindly, shivering.     His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall.     I cannot rise, he whispered faintly. I cannot.     Dark! The mother croaked, the girl came running. Here, and Sim washanded to the girl. Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him. Shegave Sim one last fondling touch.     Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly.     Go now, said the mother. Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoyyourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play.     Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp,looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried outand somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence.     Why...?     He saw his mother stiffen. The child spoke!     Aye, said his father. Did you hear what he said?     I heard, said the mother quietly.     The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly,swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silenthusband. That was the last time he ever saw them move.      IV     The night came and passed and then started the second day.     The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in afuneral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long,the bodies numerous.     Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by onehand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk.     At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed.Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason?Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to getto it and fly away into space?     The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the groundwhere the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them.     The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have theirfew minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweetair.     Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchangedwhat they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third.They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives.     Another piece of his life opened wide.     Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rockdaggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distantblack, low lines of small rock cliffs.     War!     The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These menwere running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffswhere other people lived.     But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?     From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made hisstomach cold. Why, Dark, why?     Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, therewas the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. WatchingDark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue,forever hungry.     Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled upthe rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly lusciousred berry he had found growing under an outcrop.     The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. ThenSim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculousjumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart.     Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, This shouldnot be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong!     Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. Get on! she cried.What's your name, bad one?     Chion! laughed the boy. Chion, Chion, Chion!     Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilledfeatures. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waitedfor an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understoodthe avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but thesewere things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations ofunthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here,now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy!     Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying:     Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you!     And he vanished around a rock.     More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends,enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible,quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there?     Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched fordesired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. Enemies are madeover things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends.Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you'vemade an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly.And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growingolder before her rightful time. You must fight to protect yourself.Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, aridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes ofthe life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. Yousee? As long as that is believed, you're in danger.     But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls whotomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gainbreasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one smallgirl whose hair was a violet blue flame.     She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white assilver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, alove, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeralpyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone.     Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant.     Your name? he shouted after her.     Lyte! she called laughingly back.     I'm Sim, he answered, confused and bewildered.     Sim! she repeated it, flashing on. I'll remember!     Dark nudged his ribs. Here,      eat     , she said to the distracted boy.Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her.     From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. Lyte! he mocked, dancingmalevolently along and away. Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too!     Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds ofhair, sadly. I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll needweapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming!     They ran back to the caves.  <doc-sep></s>","During his first day, Sim knows no words and has not yet spoken. Yet, he gains a lot of knowledge from images, old memories, and a telepathic type of awareness that seems to penetrate everything. He observes much of his surroundings and is upset by his analysis of the horror that occurs every day on the planet. On the second day of his existence, Sim readily and eagerly acquires more knowledge about social customs and how his society worked. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>  Mr. Dawes  came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol.     Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker.     Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before.     Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter?     Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity.     Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair.     Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting.     Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be.     Supper! Mom called.     After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten.     He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving.     I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy.     Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that.     Goodnight, Dawes said.     Goodnight.     He read Sally's copy of      Treasure Island     for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes.     He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ...     Then sleep came. <doc-sep></s>","Steve Cantwell grew up in a desert village on Sirius' second planet, he lived with his aunt. It is one of the human colonies, and it has never been accepted by the Kumaji tribesmen - the natives who have been raiding the settlements for years. Steve went to Earth to get an education, but now he came back to the planet. He flew from Oasis City to his native village on a unicopter only to find the deserted buildings and poisoned water. A Kumaji, who lived with the earthmen, tells him that the natives poisoned the well - three people died, and everybody else had to leave their home and walk to Oasis City through the desert wasteland. Now the Kumaji are looking for them to kill. The man stayed here to die since he’s too old to flee or fight. Steve gives him his water canteen and flies away to find the other citizens. Hours later, he spots a caravan with camels. He first meets Tobias Whiting, who was the most successful man in the village when Steve was a child. The man greets him coldly and soon informs Steve that his aunt was one of the people who died from the poisoned water. Then he introduces him to his daughter Mary, the young woman who charms Steve. Tobias says he had a profitable business, but all his money is gone now. Three days later, he disappears, taking Steve’s unicopter with him. The other members suppose that Tobias decided to trade the caravan’s location for his profits, thus betraying them. Mary and Steve take some food and head towards the Kumaji base to the north of the caravan since Tobias probably decided to fly there. Four days later, they spot the empty unicopter and realize that Tobias must’ve reached the base by now. They keep walking and soon surrender to the Kumajis, who put them in a circular tent where they meet Tobias. He explains to Mary that he wants to give her the life she deserves. Now he’s determined to tell the Kumaji everything since his daughter got captured, and the Kumaji might torture her for information. Steve devises an escape plan: at night, he makes Tobias scream for a second to make one of the guards come in. Steve kills this one Kumaji, but the guard manages to lethally wound Tobias while fighting with the attacker. Whiting blesses Mary and Steve and orders them to leave, promising that he’ll deceive the Kumaji and not share the true location of the caravan. The couple runs from the tent, and Steve kills several more guards before gliding off on the thlot’s - desert animal - back with Mary. They reach the caravan two days later and decide to tell everyone that Whiting initially went to the Kumaji to save everyone. Mary admits to Steve that she loves him."
"<s>The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The secondnight they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Onthe third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumajisettlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or      thlotback     , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over thesands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bondgrew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come outhere with him risking her life although she must have known deep in herheart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor inorder to regain his fortune.     On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off andmade their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve hadexpected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if heescaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached theKumaji encampment by now.     It doesn't seem badly damaged, Mary said.     The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one ofthe rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.     No, Steve said. It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of itall right.     To go—to them?     I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'msorry.     Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What      can     we do?     Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on.     North?     North.     And if by some miracle we find him?     Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But youcouldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?     As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their ownefforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they werespotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them ontheir      thlots     . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrelaside. They'd kill us, he said. We can only surrender.     They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were takenthat way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circulartent.     Tobias Whiting was in there.  <doc-sep>They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Stevecouldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed outawkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,but Steve hardly heard him.     When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man waseither dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Stevehad never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent tokill attacked a man....     Steve!     It was Mary, calling his name and crying.     It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—     Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make outTobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.     My stomach, Whiting said, gasping for breath. The pain....     Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. Hecouldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. Hetouched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, cryingsoftly.     You two ... Whiting gasped. You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—whatyou want?     Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!     You can get her out of here, Cantwell?     I think so, Steve said.     Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen areheading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary.     She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: Isn'tthere anything we can do for him?     Steve shook his head. But he's got to live long enough to tell them, todeceive them.     I'll live long enough, Whiting said, and Steve knew then that hewould. Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man....  <doc-sep>Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.     The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped toreach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died offatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could bedone for him. The food supply was running short, but they could alwaysslaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, stillfour hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on theirbacks.     And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, takingSteve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of theturbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, buthad assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve haddone so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.     But why? someone asked. Why?     At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died theday before said: It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with theKumaji.     None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not sayinganything, and Steve squeezed her hand.     Now, wait a minute, one of Whiting's friends said.     Wait, nothing. This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of thecolony. I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life forthat money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say theKumaji were looking for us, to kill us?     That's what I was told, Steve said.     All right, Gort went on relentlessly. Then this is what I figure musthave happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finallydecided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know theKumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight.     No? someone asked.     No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off likethat without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'llmake the trade. His voice reflected some bitterness.  <doc-sep></s>","Tobias is a well-muscled, handsome man in his mid-forties. He is the Colony’s official trader with the Kumajis. Steve believed him to have been the most successful man in the Colony before the events of the story. The water in his village gets poisoned by the Kumaji. He, together with his daughter and other citizens, is forced to abandon his home and walk through the desert to Oasis City, leaving all his treasures and assets behind. The Kumajis are trying to chase them and kill the Colony. At some point in their journey, he meets Steve, who found the caravan on his unicopter. Several days later, Tobias decides to steal the unicopter and fly to the Kumaji’s base fifty miles due north of their stop and trade the caravan’s location for his money. He’s kept in one of the tents, and soon Mary and Steve join him. Now that his daughter is a prisoner, he’s eager to share the location of the caravan and save her from torture. At night Steve whispers that he will kill Tobias, and the man screams. Steve quickly silences him and attacks the coming guard. The Kumaji loses the battle with Steve but stabs Tobias in the stomach. He realizes that he won’t be able to leave the camp alive, so he blesses Mary and Steve and promises to give the Kumaji the wrong direction and save the caravan."
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit.     Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air!     There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry!     I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first!     He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—     He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it.     And this time the headset spoke back!     Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears.     He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway.     Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily.     Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face.     Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died.     Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her.     The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter!  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set in the twenty-second century: the Earth government is seeking colonies in many places. One of them is on Sirius’ second planet. Steve spent his early childhood here in a human settlement in the middle of a desert, but he went to Earth to get an education. Now he got back to Oasis City, which is built at the confluence of two underground rivers and is 500 miles from his home Colony. At the beginning, Steve flies across the desert to his village: it looks abandoned. He walks from the well with water to his aunt’s house and soon finds the dying Kumaji. Later, Steve flies above the desert dunes and spots the caravan. He lands there and spends the next several days with the people walking east to Oasis City. Then Steve and Mary go to the north - to the Kumaji base. They surrender, and the Kumaji take them both to a small encampment. In a secular tent, they find Mary’s Father. When it’s dark, Mary and Steve sneak out of the tent and soon glide off across the sand on the thlot’s back. "
"<s>  HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT     By ADAM CHASE     [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.      How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most calloustraitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.     Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell whenhe reached the village.     He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve'sunicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundredmiles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was likea magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.     He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched onhis gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: thesingle well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brickhouse, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roofnow, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killedin a      Kumaji     raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiesttime as a boy.     He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creakedas he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, andbrought the ladle to his lips.     He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.     Poisoned.     He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almostgagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteenand rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact withthe poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt'shouse. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, thesaline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The tablewas set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and lastnight's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.     The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur ofthe moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—toolate for anything.     He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staringat him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizardscurried away.     Earthman! a quavering voice called.     Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones andsweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.     Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almostspasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew thecanteen and said:     What happened here?     They're gone. All gone.     Yes, but what happened?     The Kumaji—     You're Kumaji.     This is my town, the old man said. I lived with the Earthmen. Nowthey're gone.     But you stayed here—     To die, the old man said, without self-pity. I'm too old to flee, tooold to fight, too old for anything but death. More water.  <doc-sep>Steve gave him another drink. You still haven't told me what happened.Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second centuryEarth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies weresought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. TheKumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their lifeon the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant oneoasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read aboutthe raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, hadsuggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially sincea colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.     When did it happen? Steve demanded.     Last night. It was now midafternoon. Three folks died, the Kumajisaid in his almost perfect English, from the poisoning of the well. Thewell was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses.     Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City? Oasis City,built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to thesurface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles oftrackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....     They have to, the old man said. And they have to hurry. Men, womenand children. The Kumaji are after them.  <doc-sep>Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not evenblink. Well, he asked her gently, did your pa tell you he was going?     N-no, Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.     Gort turned to Steve. Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?     Steve shook his head. Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing eachday. He won't get far.     He'll crash in the desert?     Crash or crash-land, Steve said.     Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.     We've got to stop him, Gort said. And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could neverfight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I canfigure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whitingknows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare morethan a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji findus—or are led to us—and attack.     Steve said, I should have taken something out of the 'copter everynight, so it couldn't start. I'll go.     Mary came forward boldly. I have to go. He's my father. If he crashedout there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying.     Gort looked at her. And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?     Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise.     That's good enough for me, Steve said.     A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the foodand water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across thesand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might findmounted.  <doc-sep></s>","The Kumaji are the native tribesmen, and they have been raiding the Colony for many years. They also killed Steve’s parents in the past. Now they poison the village’s well, and his aunt dies from this water. They practically force the citizens to leave their homes and walk through the desert. The Kumaji are looking for the caravan to kill everyone else who remains alive. They have Tobias’ money which upsets him and makes him initially betray his people and try to trade their location for his fortune. They take him, Steve, and Mary captive and then end up being unable to stop the last two from running away. "
"<s>Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tiredfaces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of thempaid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,jiggling with the motion of the bus.     The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read thesports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. Abusinessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.     Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, apackage on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.Gazing absently ahead of her.     A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.     A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded withpackages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.     Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home totheir families. To dinner.     Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the maskof an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, theirtown, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep inhis cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof.     Maybe there were others.     Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made amistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, hadpassed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.Apparently their power-zone was limited.     A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off hischain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his smallhands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quicklyaway.     Loyce tensed. One of      them     ? Or—another they had missed?     The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alieninsect from beyond.     The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token intothe box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.     The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split secondsomething passed between them.     A look rich with meaning.     Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One stepdown into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubberdoor swung open.     Hey! the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. What the hell—     Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. Aresidential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.They were coming after him.     Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled againstthe curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then sliddown again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.     Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying inthe gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomedbefore him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.     Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. Theman screamed and tried to roll away.       Stop!     For God's sake listen—     He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off anddissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The otherswere there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and werebending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyedman who had come after him.     Had he made a mistake?     But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away fromthem. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent betweentheir world and his.  <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.     When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.     The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella.     The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return.     I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it.     I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization!     Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization.     The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha?     Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.  <doc-sep>Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof      alienness     . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the      Mare Serenitatis     covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles.     What is it? Marie asked breathlessly.     Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!     If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface.     Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it.     Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit.     Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous!     I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth.     All right, I conceded.     Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal.     A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago.     Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old?     Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say      steel     because it's      similar     to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's      at least     several thousand yearsold.  <doc-sep></s>","When Steve arrives at the Colony, he sees deserted buildings and realizes that the well water is poisoned. The old man - the Kumaji who lived with the humans - tells him that the day before, three people died from the poisoned drinking water. The Kumaji are behind this and are trying to locate the others who left the Colony. They want to find the caravan, and even though the desert wind will wipe out the humans' trail, they still need to be informed about this danger. Knowing all of this allows Steve to find the caravan and eventually save them from the Kumaji, who could learn their location from Tobias Whiting. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.     He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt.     He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything.     Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again.     It was getting light. His head was splitting.     Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown....       Town!     He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening.     He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.     Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately?       The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that....       He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life?     He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou!  <doc-sep>Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play.     Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes.     You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house.     But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee.     The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean.     In a town like this?     That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him.     We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular?     The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had?     He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation.  <doc-sep></s>","The plot follows Sol, a veteran of the U.S. army who, after picking up a hitchhiker on the way to a wedding, gets his car robbed near a small town. He ends up staying in the house of a young family who are kind enough to host him. They are very nice with him, and even offer him breakfast the next morning. As Sol learns more of the town and the family, he learns that the people in the town share the same dream every night, in a place called the Armagon. He also learns that there was an execution last night in the same place. He follows Willie Dawes, the head of the family, to pick up the body of the person that was executed. They are also accompanied by the sheriff of the town and by a man named Charlie. When Sol sees the body of the executed person, he starts to get worried and starts asking people in the town questions about the Armagon. That night, Sol stays with the Dawes family again, and when he goes to sleep he meets with the townspeople in the Armagon, where it seems that he will be executed. "
"<s>  He  was flanked by marblepillars, thrusting towardsa high-domed ceiling.     The room stretched longand wide before him, thewalls bedecked in stunningpurple draperies.     He whirled at the sound offootsteps, echoing stridentlyon the stone floor. Someonewas running towards him.     It was Sally, pigtailsstreaming out behind her, thesmall body wearing a flowingwhite toga. She was shrieking,laughing as she skitteredpast him, clutching a gleaminggold helmet.     He called out to her, butshe was too busy outdistancingher pursuer. It was SheriffCoogan, puffing and huffing,the metal-and-gold clothuniform ludicrous on hislanky frame.     Consarn kid! he wheezed.Gimme my hat!     Mom was following him,her stout body regal in scarletrobes. Sally! You giveSir Coogan his helmet! Youhear?     Mrs. Dawes! Sol said.     Why, Mr. Becker! Hownice to see you again! Pa!      Pa!     Look who's here!     Willie Dawes appeared.      No!     Sol thought. This was      King     Dawes; nothing elsecould explain the magnificenceof his attire.     Yes, Dawes said craftily.So I see. Welcome to Armagon,Mr. Becker.     Armagon? Sol gaped.Then this is the placeyou've been dreaming about?     Yep, the King said. Andnow      you're     in it, too.     Then I'm only dreaming!     Charlie, the fat man,clumsy as ever in his robes ofState, said: So      that's     thesnooper, eh?     Yep, Dawes chuckled.Think you better round upthe Knights.     Sol said: The Knights?     Exelution! Exelution!Sally shrieked.     Now wait a minute—     Charlie shouted.     Running feet, clanking ofarmor. Sol backed up againsta pillar. Now look here.You've gone far enough—     Not quite, said the King.     The Knights stepped forward.     Wait! Sol screamed.     Familiar faces, under shininghelmets, moved towardshim; the tips of sharp-pointedspears gleaming wickedly.And Sol Becker wondered—wouldhe ever awake?     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   January 1957.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>  He  took a walk.     The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else.     He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes.     Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter.     Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon?     You a stranger?     Yes.     Thought so.     Sol repeated the question.     Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is.     How—I mean, what kindof place is it?     Said you're a stranger?     Yes.     Then 'tain't your business.     That was that.     He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody.     He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened.     Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it.     At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story.     He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing.     At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities.     Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal.     He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents.     He learned little. <doc-sep>  At  the table, Dawesasked his destination.     Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He      seemed     okay.     Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night?     That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though.     What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full.     Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know      nothin'     ?           Arma     gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name?     Becker.     Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically.     Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout?     Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime.     Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes.     You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean      you     dream about the sameplace?     Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too.     If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly.     If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution!     Execution, her fathersaid.     Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the      least     Icould do.     Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there.     Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution?     None of      your     business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car.     The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready.     Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor.     Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you?     Fine, Sol said uneasily.     The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep></s>","Willie is the head of the family that hosts and helps Sol after his car was stolen. He seems to have a lot of influence in the town, as he helps the sheriff in his day to day tasks and everyone in the town knows him. He is described as a tall and skinny man. He is also married to Mom, which is the woman that first received Sol after his car was stolen. Together she and Willie have a child called Sally. At the end, it is revealed that Willie is actually the king of the Armagon, which is why he has so much influence in the town. "
"<s>  At  the table, Dawesasked his destination.     Wedding in Salinas, heexplained. Old Army friendof mine. I picked this hitchhikerup about two miles fromhere. He      seemed     okay.     Never can tell, Dawessaid placidly, munching egg.Hey, Ma. That why youwere so late comin' to courtlast night?     That's right, Pa. Shepoured the blackest coffeeSol had ever seen. Didn'tmiss much, though.     What court is that? Solasked politely, his mouth full.     Umagum, Sally said, apiece of toast sticking outfrom the side of her mouth.Don't you know      nothin'     ?           Arma     gon, Dawes corrected.He looked sheepishly atthe stranger. Don't expectMister— He cocked an eyebrow.What's the name?     Becker.     Don't expect Mr. Beckerknows anything about Armagon.It's just a dream, youknow. He smiled apologetically.     Dream? You mean this—Armagonis a place you dreamabout?     Yep, Dawes said. He liftedcup to lip. Great coffee,Ma. He leaned back with acontented sigh. Dream aboutit every night. Got so used tothe place, I get all confusedin the daytime.     Mom said: I get muddle-headedtoo, sometimes.     You mean— Sol put hisnapkin in his lap. You mean      you     dream about the sameplace?     Sure, Sally piped. Weall go there at night. I'm goin'to the palace again, too.     If you brush your teeth,Mom said primly.     If I brush my teeth. Boy,you shoulda seen the exelution!     Execution, her fathersaid.     Oh, my goodness! Momgot up hastily. That remindsme. I gotta call poor Mrs.Brundage. It's the      least     Icould do.     Good idea, Dawes nodded.And I'll have to roundup some folks and get oldBrundage out of there.     Sol was staring. He openedhis mouth, but couldn't thinkof the right question to ask.Then he blurted out: Whatexecution?     None of      your     business,the man said coldly. You eatup, young man. If you wantme to get Sheriff Cooganlookin' for your car.     The rest of the meal wentsilently, except for Sally's insistenceupon singing herschool song between mouthfuls.When Dawes wasthrough, he pushed back hisplate and ordered Sol to getready.     Sol grabbed his topcoat andfollowed the man out thedoor.     Have to stop someplacefirst, Dawes said. But we'llbe pickin' up the Sheriff onthe way. Okay with you?     Fine, Sol said uneasily.     The rain had stopped, butthe heavy clouds seemed reluctantto leave the skies overthe small town. There was askittish breeze blowing, andSol Becker tightened the collarof his coat around hisneck as he tried to keep upwith the fast-stepping Dawes. <doc-sep>  The  fat man rang thebell. It was a while before ananswer came.     It was a reedy woman in ahousecoat, her hair in curlers,her eyes red and swollen.     Now, now, Dawes saidgently. Don't you take onlike that, Mrs. Brundage. Youheard the charges. It haddabe this way.     My poor Vincent, shesobbed.     Better let us up, theSheriff said kindly. No usejust lettin' him lay there,Mrs. Brundage.     He didn't mean no harm,the woman snuffled. He wasjust purely ornery, Vincentwas. Just plain mean stubborn.     The law's the law, thefat man sighed.     Sol couldn't hold himselfin.     What law? Who's dead?How did it happen?     Dawes looked at him disgustedly.Now is it any of      your     business? I mean, is it?     I don't know, Sol saidmiserably.     You better stay out ofthis, the Sheriff warned.This is a local matter, youngman. You better stay in theshop while we go up.     They filed past him and thecrying Mrs. Brundage.     When they were out ofsight, Sol pleaded with her.     What happened? How didyour husband die?     Please ...     You must tell me! Was itsomething to do with Armagon?Do you dream about theplace, too?     She was shocked at thequestion. Of course!     And your husband? Didhe have the same dream?     Fresh tears resulted. Can'tyou leave me alone? Sheturned her back. I got thingsto do. You can make yourselfcomfortable— She indicatedthe barber chairs, and leftthrough the back door.     Sol looked after her, andthen ambled over to the firstchair and slipped into thehigh seat. His reflection inthe mirror, strangely gray inthe dim light, made himgroan. His clothes were amess, and he needed a shave.If only Brundage had beenalive ...     He leaped out of the chairas voices sounded behind thedoor. Dawes was kicking itopen with his foot, his armsladen with two rather largefeet, still encased in bedroomslippers. Charlie was at theother end of the burden,which appeared to be a middle-agedman in pajamas. TheSheriff followed the trio upwith a sad, undertaker expression.Behind him came Mrs.Brundage, properly weeping.     We'll take him to the funeralparlor, Dawes said,breathing hard. Weighs aton, don't he?     What killed him? Solsaid.     Heart attack.     The fat man chuckled.     The tableau was grisly. Sollooked away, towards thecomfortingly mundane atmosphereof the barber shop. Buteven the sight of the thick-paddedchairs, the shavingmugs on the wall, the neatrows of cutting instruments,seemed grotesque and morbid.     Listen, Sol said, as theywent through the doorway.About my car—     The Sheriff turned and regardedhim lugubriously.Your      car     ? Young man, ain'tyou got no      respect     ?     Sol swallowed hard and fellsilent. He went outside withthem, the woman slammingthe barber-shop door behindhim. He waited in front ofthe building while the mentoted away the corpse to somenew destination. <doc-sep>  They  crossed thestreet diagonally, and entereda two-story wooden building.Dawes took the stairs at abrisk pace, and pushed openthe door on the second floor.A fat man looked up frombehind a desk.     Hi, Charlie. Thought I'dsee if you wanted to helpmove Brundage.     The man batted his eyes.Oh, Brundage! he said.You know, I clean forgotabout him? He laughed.Imagine me forgettingthat?     Yeah. Dawes wasn'tamused. And you Prince Regent.     Aw, Willie—     Well, come on. Stir thatfat carcass. Gotta pick upSheriff Coogan, too. Thishere gentleman has to see himabout somethin' else.     The man regarded Sol suspiciously.Never seen youbefore. Night      or     day. Stranger?     Come      on     ! Dawes said.     The fat man grunted andhoisted himself out of theswivel chair. He followedlamely behind the two menas they went out into thestreet again.     A woman, with an emptymarket basket, nodded casuallyto them. Mornin', folks.Enjoyed it last night.Thought you made a rightnice speech, Mr. Dawes.     Thanks, Dawes answeredgruffly, but obviously flattered.We were just goin'over to Brundage's to pick upthe body. Ma's gonna pay acall on Mrs. Brundage aroundten o'clock. You care to visit?     Why, I think that's verynice, the woman said. I'llbe sure and do that. Shesmiled at the fat man. Mornin',Prince.     Sol's head was spinning. Asthey left the woman and continuedtheir determinedmarch down the quiet street,he tried to find answers.     Look, Mr. Dawes. He waspanting; the pace was fast.Does      she     dream about this—Armagon,too? That womanback there?     Yep.     Charlie chuckled. He's astranger, all right.     And you, Mr.— Solturned to the fat man. Youalso know about this palaceand everything?     I told you, Dawes saidtestily. Charlie here's PrinceRegent. But don't let the fancytitle fool you. He got nomore power than any Knightof the Realm. He's just toodern fat to do much more'nsit on a throne and eat grapes.That right, Charlie?     The fat man giggled.     Here's the Sheriff, Dawessaid.     The Sheriff, a sleepy-eyedcitizen with a long, sad face,was rocking on a porch asthey approached his house,trying to puff a half-lit pipe.He lifted one hand wearilywhen he saw them.     Hi, Cookie, Dawesgrinned. Thought you, me,and Charlie would get Brundage'sbody outa the house.This here's Mr. Becker; hegot another problem. Mr.Becker, meet Cookie Coogan.     The Sheriff joined the procession,pausing only once toinquire into Sol's predicament.     He described the hitchhikerincident, but Cooganlistened stoically. He murmuredsomething about theTroopers, and shuffled alongsidethe puffing fat man.     Sol soon realized that theirdestination was a barber shop.     Dawes cupped his handsover the plate glass andpeered inside. Gold letters onthe glass advertised: HAIRCUTSHAVE & MASSAGEPARLOR. He reported: Nobodyin the shop. Must beupstairs. <doc-sep></s>","Mrs. Brundage is one of the townspeople that live in the town that Sol got robbed in. She and her Husband own a barber shop, in which her husband was the barber. It is revealed that the execution in the Armagon from the first night was in fact Mr. Brundage, and that he was executed for breaking the rules. When Sol and Mr. Dawes picks up the body, she seems very distraught and sad, but she seems to understand the repercussions of her husband’s actions. "
"<s>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  <doc-sep>  Mr. Dawes  came home anhour later, looking tired.Mom pecked him lightly onthe forehead. He glanced atthe evening paper, and thenspoke to Sol.     Hear you been askingquestions, Mr. Becker.     Sol nodded, embarrassed.Guess I have. I'm awfullycurious about this Armagonplace. Never heard of anythinglike it before.     Dawes grunted. You ain'ta reporter?     Oh, no. I'm an engineer. Iwas just satisfying my owncuriosity.     Uh-huh. Dawes lookedreflective. You wouldn't bethinkin' about writing us upor anything. I mean, this is apretty private affair.     Writing it up? Solblinked. I hadn't thought ofit. But you'll have to admit—it'ssure interesting.     Yeah, Dawes said narrowly.I guess it would be.     Supper! Mom called.     After the meal, they spenta quiet evening at home. Sallywent to bed, screaming herreluctance, at eight-thirty.Mom, dozing in the big chairnear the fireplace, padded upstairsat nine. Then Dawesyawned widely, stood up, andsaid goodnight at quarter-of-ten.     He paused in the doorwaybefore leaving.     I'd think about that, hesaid. Writing it up, I mean.A lot of folks would thinkyou were just plum crazy.     Sol laughed feebly. Iguess they would at that.     Goodnight, Dawes said.     Goodnight.     He read Sally's copy of      Treasure Island     for abouthalf an hour. Then he undressed,made himself comfortableon the sofa, snuggledunder the soft blanketthat Mom had provided, andshut his eyes.     He reviewed the events ofthe day before dropping offto sleep. The troublesomeSally. The strange dreamworld of Armagon. The visitto the barber shop. The removalof Brundage's body.The conversations with thetownspeople. Dawes' suspiciousattitude ...     Then sleep came. <doc-sep>He nodded. He'd heard about the sea-bottom mining cities that werebubbling under protective domes in every one of the Earth's oceans justabout the same time settlements were springing up on the planets.     He looked impressed when I told him about Mom and Pop being one of thefirst couples to get married in Undersea. He looked thoughtful when Itold him how Sis and I had been born there and spent half our childhoodlistening to the pressure pumps. He raised his eyebrows and lookeddisgusted when I told how Mom, as Undersea representative on the WorldCouncil, had been one of the framers of the Male Desuffrage Act afterthe Third Atomic War had resulted in the Maternal Revolution.  <doc-sep></s>","Mom is the wife of Willie Dawes, and is the kind woman who received Sol when his car was robbed and he was wet from the rain. She was very kind to give him the sofa, after which she hurried up to her room to attend the Armagon execution. She seems to be a very good mom, and she enjoys cooking for her family. She is very helpful to Sol, but she also makes it clear that she isn’t going to go out of her way to help him more, like he has to sleep on the sofa and that breakfast is at 7. "
"<s>  He  took a walk.     The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else.     He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes.     Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter.     Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon?     You a stranger?     Yes.     Thought so.     Sol repeated the question.     Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is.     How—I mean, what kindof place is it?     Said you're a stranger?     Yes.     Then 'tain't your business.     That was that.     He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody.     He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened.     Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it.     At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story.     He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing.     At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities.     Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal.     He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents.     He learned little. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.     You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves.     I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.     The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully.     I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering.     What date was it you wanted?     Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.     The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you.     I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.     On page four, under a column headed      County Notes     he saw the name Bram:     Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths.     May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?     The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye:     A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river.     The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow.     Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.     A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car.     Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car.  <doc-sep>His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came toa waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat.He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves underthe night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from themoon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.     He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raiseddamp fingers to his mouth. Salt.     He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly,until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him,and shut his eyes and mind to everything.     Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He camedown on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked toher, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever theywere which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturinghim again.     It was getting light. His head was splitting.     Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school intown....       Town!     He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east,to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring himright down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, findout what was happening.     He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking untilshe broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.     Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long timelately?       The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made byflooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, wherethere could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been wherethat ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons.And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city ofCrossville. And after that....       He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet herehe was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Couldit be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as toforget things he'd known all his life?     He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he wasbeyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed onthe road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard.There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and hisfamily and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folksheard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised hisvoice. Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah getyou!  <doc-sep></s>","The dream of the townspeople is what makes the town unique, and what puts Sol in danger. At the beginning Sol thought that the Dawes family shared a dream, but then he learned that everyone in the town had the same dream every night together. Also, the dream is a courtroom style, where Dawes is the king and can execute people. Charlie, the fat man that helps Dawes, is one of the knights in the Armagon. At the end, Sol attends this shared dream and it is implied that he is going to be killed by Dawes and the others. "
"<s>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.     From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances.     The law didn't leave a man much leeway.     But everybody knew that if you      really     wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone.     Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway.     Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou.  <doc-sep></s>","George Faircloth, a husband who has an eight-year marriage with Marge Faircloth, is unsatisfied with his wife as he thinks she is annoying and unbearable. He desires but cannot divorce her as the law and society are critical of the divorce. His colleague, Harry Folsom, suggests he get an illegal Ego Prime, a technology that can produce a human duplicate possessing all the human features and functions, after he becomes fed up with his wife after a fight over his new secretary. He goes to the black market, goes through all the examinations needed for the technology, and buys a Super Deluxe Prime, George Prime, to hide in his workshop in the garage. The workshop is his sanctuary that he keeps for years after a long fight with Marge, a place where Marge cannot go in. He sets up George Prime and orders it to pretend him whenever he goes out to have some extramarital affairs with women in his office. George Prime does an excellent job on that as it behaves completely identical to George Faircloth, except that it gives Marge Faircloth more pleasure than George Faircloth does. At first, George Faircloth enjoys the freedom of playing around with women and not having to worry about Marge’s hysteria. But after a while, as he realizes that Marge has been more mellow and sweet whenever he is at home, catching George Prime on the street once when it is not supposed to be outside according to his order, he starts to suspect whether his choice is correct or not. One day, he leaves his date and comes home early, seeing George Prime have sexual affairs with Marge. Gripped by the anger, he tries to recall George Prime coming back to the garage, but it doesn’t respond due to the lack of the first logical opportunity for it to return. After that, through the conversation with George Prime, he realizes that things are out of his control as he cannot decide specifically what George Prime will do. Even worse, he finds out that his money is spent through the signature of George Prime as their signatures both have legal effects, and that he cannot call the police to fix it as he couldn’t explain the situation of illegal George Prime. George Prime and Marge Faircloth leave for Bermuda with his money. Marge comes home when he feels desperate in his house and comforts him. He soon realizes that it is not Marge Faircloth but Marge Prime, his wife’s duplicate and that his wife had already found out his trick long before. In the end, George Faircloth lives happily with Marge Prime, and Marge Faircloth lives happily with George Prime. Both of them are satisfied with the duplicates as they would satisfy their needs in the marriage."
"<s>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  <doc-sep>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.     From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances.     The law didn't leave a man much leeway.     But everybody knew that if you      really     wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone.     Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway.     Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou.  <doc-sep>Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparklewith George Prime on hand to cover the home front.     For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt alittle guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge allthe time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget thathe literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the samewhenever I took him out of his closet.     She's really a sweet girl underneath it all, I'd say. You'll learnto like her after a bit.     Of course I like her, George Prime said. You told me to, didn't you?Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all.     He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. You're sureyou understand the exchange mechanism? I asked. I didn't want anyfoul-ups there, as you can imagine.     Perfectly, said George Prime. When you buzz the recall, I wait forthe first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop,and you take over.     But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off.     George Prime looked pained. Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model,remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in thiscranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous.I'll take care of everything. Relax.     So I did.     Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a verycozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax aftera hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is.As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything waswonderful.     And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in theaccounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.     I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite areputation for myself around the office.     Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, thenovelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. Ittook a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonableprogram.     Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally out while formallyin. Sometimes I took Sunday nights out if things got too stickyaround the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Primecooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completelytrust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.     There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had toquick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was noway to supply him with current data until the time for his regulartwo-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In themeantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.     But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.  <doc-sep></s>","The Ego Prime is a technology that produces a robotic duplicate of a person. This duplicate is based on a neuro-pantograph with a humanlike body and soul. The duplicate is identical to a real person, including the habits, thought processes, physiological functions, or even the handwritten legal signature that one person may have. The only difference between the real person and one’s duplicate is that the duplicate has a finger-depression button hidden underneath the hair above the ear. Throughout the story, George, a husband who has been tired of his wife, buys a George Prime, the duplicate of himself, to deal with his wife and have sexual affairs with other women around his office. However, he finds out that George Prime leaves with her wife, and his wife, Marge Faircloth, sends her duplicate Marge Prime to accompany her, just as he did to her. The exchange of their duplicates to escape from the unsatisfying marriage contributes to most of the story. Prime technology plays a significant role as duplicates can satisfy human needs better than a natural person. Due to this characteristic of being able to meet one’s demand by their logical inferences and inability to feel annoyed, the duplicates of both sides become the ideal mates for each person, both George and Marge, ending the story with both of them living with the Primes. Without Prime Technology, the story would not have developed."
"<s>   PRIME DIFFERENCE     By ALAN E. NOURSE     Illustrated by SCHOENHEER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Being two men rolled out of one would solve       my problems—but which one would I be?        I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when hegets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.     Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thinglike that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded AmericanInstitution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throwa cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a womanlike Marge—     It's so      permanent     .     Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in theBlissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968,and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women gottheir teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved SpouseCompensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life ifI'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.     You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a manhas to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.     So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keepMarge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.     Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyesand a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was wherethe dream stopped.     She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances longenough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she wascrying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chillingdetail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband,which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a beastlyheadache (for which I was personally responsible) and the other halfshe was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time wegot along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.  <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall.     I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.     I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?     Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation.     Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.     I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially.     I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together.   <doc-sep></s>","The story starts with a husband, George Faircloth, who is unsatisfied with his marriage, trying to escape from his wife without communicating with her. Throughout the story, he uses Prime Technology, a technology that can produce an identical duplicate of a human, to deal with his wife’s complaints and other annoying interactions with him. However, when he finds out that George Prime, his duplicate, gets along better with his wife than him and finally leaves him behind together, he realizes what he has done wrong. When he feels desperate, his wife’s duplicate comes to stay with him, and he finally finds his wife’s duplicate better than his wife. The central theme of the story is the marriage relationship. The beginning of the story reveals a marriage failure where both the husband and the wife are not satisfied with each other after years-long marriage. Their solutions are not to communicate with each other or change for the better but to escape from each other through Prime technology. In the middle of the story, where George Faircloth once finds his wife adorable again due to George Prime’s effort, it shows the importance of communication and mutual support in the marriage, which is lacking in their relationship. The ending of the story, where both of them live with the duplicates of each other, indicates that a good relationship in marriage is to listen to and satisfy what each other needs with proper communication."
"<s>I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as Icould, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? Ipunched the button again, viciously, and waited.     George Prime didn't come out.     It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleepa wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with afour-day hangover.     Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insistingblandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the firstlogical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactlywhat he'd done.     I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, allright. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as thelaboratory could take him.     But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I gotto the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about thatcheck of mine that had just bounced.     What check? I asked.     The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—againstyour regular account, Mr. Faircloth.     The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in thataccount. I told the man so rather bluntly.     Oh, no, sir. That is, you      did     until last week. But all these checksyou've been cashing have emptied the account.     He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every oneof them.     What about my special account? I'd learned long before that anaccount Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.     That's been closed out for two weeks.     I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glaredat the ceiling and tried to think things through.     I came up with a horrible thought.     Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to getaway from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.     I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and starteddown them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. No, sir,not      Mrs.     Faircloth.      You     bought two tickets. One way. Champagneflight to Bermuda.     When? I choked out.     Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleveno'clock—     I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't knowwhat they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no questionnow that he was out of control—      way     out of control. And poor Marge,all worked up for a second honeymoon—     Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in hisright circuits would behave this way without some human guidance andthat meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happenedbefore. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd knownall about George Prime.       For how long?    <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  <doc-sep>When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in hiscloset. And Marge wasn't in the house.     They were gone.     I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. Icouldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off withan android.     Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Primewandering around.     I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.     My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.     It was indecent.     Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full ofgrocery bundles. Why, darling! You're home early!     I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, You're still here!     Of course. Where did you think I'd be?     But I thought—I mean the ticket office—     She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes,almost smiling, half reproachful. You didn't really think I'd gorunning off with something out of a lab, did you?     Then—you knew?     Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructinghim, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas ofhis own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me torun off with him to Hawaii or someplace.     Bermuda, I said.     And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheekagainst my chest.     Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be, she said. Hewas like you, but he wasn't      you     , darling. And all I ever want is you.I just never appreciated you before....     I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. GeorgeFaircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. But whatdid you do with him?     I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blothim out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more.We've got more interesting things to discuss.     Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was theMarge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could havebeen so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfullyporous, the old Marge was      never     like this—     I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and feltthe depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had reallyhappened.     That Marge always had been a sly one.     I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.  <doc-sep></s>","George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth are husband and wife. They have married for 8 years. Their relationship is toxic and unsatisfying. George is fed up with Marge’s constant complaints, grievance, and crying. Marge is unsatisfied with George’s inattention to her and his possible affairs with women in his office, so she often spies on George’s office life, which irritates George more. They are constantly in fight. Their way of communicating with each other is to attack and fight, and they haven’t seen each other carefully and sweetly for a long time. Their relationship is to conquer and be conquered repeatedly, fighting all the time."
"<s>It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime,Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once thenation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.     From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating theuse of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a licensefor a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or ahigh public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but eventhen his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had tohave a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advanceexactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how,why, and under what circumstances.     The law didn't leave a man much leeway.     But everybody knew that if you      really     wanted a personal Prime withall his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Blackmarket prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could bedone.     Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks gotlost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man witha black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouseoff lower Broadway.     Ah, yes, the little man said. Mr. Faircloth. We've been expectingyou.  <doc-sep>Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used toenvy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to livewith either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in awhile with one of the stenographers and get away with it.     I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn'teven smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. GiveMarge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the RehabCenter in a week.     But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I foundout when Jeree came along.     Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffledaround from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got anexecutive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. Asa matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort ofsecretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do anywork—just to sit there.     Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without sayinganything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she wasthere, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply theopportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.     That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something overduring the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to mymouth, and then she said, I hear you got a new secretary today.     I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.     Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. I also hear that she'sfive-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome.     Marge had quite a spy system.     She couldn't be much of a secretary, she added.     She's a perfectly good secretary, I blurted, and kicked myselfmentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.     Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strongat midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was nostopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.     Harry Folsom administered the      coup de grace     at coffee next morning.What you need is an Ego Prime, he said with a grin. Solve all yourproblems. I hear they work like a charm.     I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. Don't beridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such athing. It's—it's indecent.     Harry shrugged. Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun tothink about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Noteven too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got afriend who knows a guy—     Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I grippedmy cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.     As I said, a guy gets fed up.     And maybe opportunity would only knock once.     And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.  <doc-sep>Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented theNeuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with itonce he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers boughthim body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design,artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up withthe modern Ego Primes we have today.     I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists workedoutside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it prettywoozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in therecovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Primewhen I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walkedin, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and atired look on his face.       Meet George Faircloth Prime, the technician said, grinning at me likea nursing mother.     I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly.Nothing flabby about it.     I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. Come on, Brother, Isaid. You've got a job to do.     But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.     George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recordedneurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thoughtwhat I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. Theonly difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Primedid.     If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and makethe smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders,he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be mysignature. It would hold up in court.     And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-heartedgirl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any timeI chose, he'd do that, too.     George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs onthe back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the samemannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physicaldifference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depressionburied in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stopGeorge Prime dead in his tracks.     He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just apile of gears.     I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.     Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds itup and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife'snatural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimesit takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and beconfident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough,and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistentenough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hatehim for it, but he'll win.     With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or acorner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early inthe game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.  <doc-sep></s>","Harry Folsom is a colleague of George Faircloth, a husband fed up with his wife. He also has a wife who is unbearable to him, but he gets the chance to escape from her once in a while. In addition, he has a friend who knows how to get the Ego Prime, a technology to produce duplicate people from natural human beings, from the black market. Harry is the person who inspires and provides the resource for George to get an illegal Ego Prime, which contributes to the whole story."
"<s>   Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  <doc-sep></s>","Kaiser is a young man who was unhappily married and decided to join space service to escape his wife and her brother. He was on the mothership, Soscites II, that was finishing its planet-mapping tour. The team put him in a scout ship and sent him to the planet he calls Big Muddy. During the landing, the scout’s bottom bent inward and flattened the fuel tube. At some point, Kaiser finds himself lost because he doesn’t remember what was happening in the last hours, only the fact that he must fix the scout during the next few weeks. He reads the message tape with the mothership and learns that he had a swollen arm, a fever, periods of blankness, and in the middle of the exchange, he started using baby-talk. Now Kaiser feels better and asks for some information on fixing the scout from the mothership’s team. Then, he walks around the scout, looks at the “octopus” testing the environment of Big Muddy, and heads toward a sluggish river and native seal-people. They are short, with the body of a seal, thick arms, and thumbless hands, and have mammalian characteristics. The man spends some time observing them and then looks at their domed buildings. Soon the mothership informs Kaiser that he has probably been invaded by a symbiote, though it is not supposed to harm him. It’s adaptable and tried to give Kaiser what he emotionally desired. Hours later, the team adds that the symbiote can accurately gauge his feelings, and he needs to test this. Kaiser makes a shallow cut - it immediately heels, his sensory perception improves, and now he can control how humidity affects him. He spends a day trying to repair the scout and then leaves for a day walking trip. He meets another group of seal-people. They seem more advanced than the first ones. Kaiser sleeps in a tent and, in the morning, swims with the natives until one of them starts playfully drowning him. He comes back to his ship and realizes that his physical strength has improved. Kaiser manages to partially fix the metal bottom and report the events of the day to the mothership. They tell him that the natives probably have the symbiote and then order him to repair the ship as soon as possible. In the morning, they repeat that he needs to leave very soon, which puzzles Kaiser. The captain sends an angry message with the order to finish repairing the scout. Kaiser goes to the river and takes the communicator with him. The natives look almost human-like now and use syllabism. A female native invites him to the river, but Kaiser hears that the communicator received a message. He walks back and reads that the team has a suspicion the symbiote can alter Kaiser’s mind. The second group of seal-people was not more advanced - he just became more like them. The man destroys the communicator and follows the girl to the river. "
"<s>   Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","Kaiser left Earth on a mothership Soscites II, that soon, finishing its planet-mapping tour, approached a planet that the man named Big Muddy. He left the spacecraft in a small scout ship - which had a pilot chair, a communicator, and a bunk - and landed on the muddy surface. The other seven scouts got lost during the previous exploration of new worlds. It is wet, humid, and warm on Big muddy, constantly raining with different intensity. There is a wide sluggish river, which has the shape of a horseshoe, two hundred yards away from the scout and also a chain of hills. Farther, along the stream, there is a group of several hundred domed dwellings, built of mud blocks, packed with river weed and sand. Another group of seal-people lives near the riverbank in the opposite direction of Kaiser's first observational walk. "
"<s>Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipmentthrough and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator,as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warpedplace on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.     Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the enginecasing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and triedagain, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. Themetal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his handsbruise against the lever.     Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted.His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increasedtremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he triedagain. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pumphung free!     Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solutionrest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of itsanticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.     He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down toread the two messages waiting for him.     The first was quite routine:     REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICALWEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREMEMOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BECOMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID.     TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREMEADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVESYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES'AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOUINFORMED.     GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.     SS II     The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a noteof uneasiness in it.     SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATIONON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.     SS II     Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report hadcovered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went tosleep.     In the morning, another message was waiting:     VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE ASQUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.     SS II  <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  <doc-sep>   Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  <doc-sep></s>","Kaiser’s perception of the native groups of seal-people represents how his body is affected by the symbiote that has invaded his system. The first time the man sees them, he considers them mindless repulsive creatures with an unbearable odor and no proper communication system. The second meeting changes his opinion about them - now they seem more advanced in their demeanor and actions, friendlier, and their smell is less repugnant. This change in perception shows that Kaiser has already started changing, becoming more like them. The last meeting with the seal-people makes the man believe that they have more individualistic characteristics. They don’t have the bad odor anymore, just a pleasant scent. They use distinct syllabism, and, finally, living with them and swimming in the river seems more appealing to him than going back to the Soscites II. These seal-people have the same symbiote, which has altered their appearance and mind. At the end, Kaiser practically becomes one of them. "
"<s>   Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep></s>","The communicator allows Kaiser to receive messages from the mothership and its team. It’s the only mechanism that connects him to other intelligent human beings. Throughout the story, these messages help him understand why he had a fever, swelling, a brief period of blankness, and why he used baby-talk. Using the communication device, the mothership’s team and scientists explain to Kaiser what kind of symbiote lives in his body and how it can gauge his emotional reactions and adapt to various environmental and mental triggers. They manage to ask Keiser to test their theory and later inform him of their findings regarding the planet's climate. They use the tape to order Kaiser to return as soon as possible and finally tell him that the symbiote is probably changing his mind and turning him into someone equal in intelligence to the seal-people. "
"<s>   Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby     talk messages to his mother ship! He was—     GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY     By CHARLES V. DE VET     Illustrated by TURPIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehendingminute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane babytalk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read thislast communication a third time before he recognized anything unusualabout it?     He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read asthey should.     OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER,LET USNS KNOW.     SS II     Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tapethoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, largedrops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scoutship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.     Damn this climate! Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. Doesn't it ever doanything here except rain?     His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? Andwhy was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he beendoing during that time?     Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisturefrom his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone outwhen the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or hewas stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over thejob very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handlealone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little orno chance of his being able to find either here.     Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, andbrought them out where he could look at them:     The mother ship,      Soscites II     , had been on the last leg of itsplanet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scoutship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during theexploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about thisplanet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.     The      Soscites II     had to maintain its constant speed; it had no meansof slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop.Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up anorbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circlea pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.     Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded hereforever.     That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doingrecently.     A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at thetape in his hand. Baby talk....  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only anhour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Stillfive more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neckand shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.     After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom ofBig Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than aheavy drizzle now.     Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chestagainst one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic bootsand a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest witha slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and rollover onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.     The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.     Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solidground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Besidethe ship, the octopus was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae,extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recordedtemperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetaryconditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator andall its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.     Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide,sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there,he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then ahigher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and sawthem. As usual, most were swimming in the river.       One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixtureof gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhapsa lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and histoothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle thatmight have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a strangerapproached.     The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubberybody of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the armsto his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended inthree-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick,with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gavehis legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fishsmell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.     The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feelingslightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palmforward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the maingroup.  <doc-sep></s>","The fact that Kaiser at some point uses baby-talk helps Sam and other members of the Soscites II team determine what exactly caused Kaiser’s symptoms and how it can analyze his emotions and use them to give his body what it needs. The main reason why the man uses baby-talk seems to be that he was most happy in his childhood which also underscores his alienation from people, that he is a loner. Kaiser went to space to run away from his wife and her brother, his colleagues respect him but do not like him, and none of them is Kaiser’s friend. He’s naturally unsociable and was happier when he was a kid. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation.     You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia?     Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back.     I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step?     The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is?     I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more.     The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly.     I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables?     At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame.     Clever of them.     Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy,      seemingly     . It      seemingly     destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually—     He paused dramatically.     Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of      heat     . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed!     I agree, I said reluctantly.     Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat.     I waved his protests aside.     I      would     agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously.     Why? the young man demanded.     Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell.     Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?     No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is      use up     the excess energy with engines of a specific design.     But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom.     Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential.  <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  <doc-sep></s>","A racketeer, Tony Carmen, comes to Professor Venetti, demanding him figure out how to get rid of the corpse in his house without leaving any traces by using the information Professor Venetti has in his job for the U.S. government that is related to the disposal problem of nuclear waste. Tony threatens Professor Venetti that if Professor Venetti does not abide by what he says, his connection with Mafia will cause Professor Venetti a lot of trouble. Afraid of what the Mafia may do, Professor Venetti finally accepts his request. However, professor Venetti does not abide by the safety and careful principles when he invents the machine, which is named Expendable late after by Tony. He does not know how the machine works either; he creates a device that can turn physical mass into nothingness without knowing where the disposed of mass or energy goes. When he gives the machine to Tony, Tony asks how the machine works, but Professor Venetti cannot explain. Later on, Tony sets up the device on the street, ordering Professor Venetti to turn on the machine, which is modified by a boy who used to be a mechanic, and Professor Venetti does. The machine destroys a warehouse, including the people inside. Professor Venetti condemns Tony for committing a crime, but Tony does not care as there is no corpse to prove the crime. Tony persuades Professor Venetti to put the Expendables into business. He leaks the information about the machine through newspapers to attract big corporations to come for them. As they make more profits from the product and go through all the business matters, an agent from Atomic Energy Commission comes. The agent informs them about the ban of their products because there is a research finding that the side effect of their product is the heat transformed from the mass, which results in the rising temperature. Professor Venetti believes that people would not stop using the products even if they knew what environmental damage they would cause. He creates a reverse version of the machine, called Disexpendable, which would consume the excess energy produced by the Expendables. After he completes it, he turns it on. As the Disexpendable operates, the temperature gets colder, and the corpse, once decomposed, appears in the room in front of the agent. At the same time, Tony orders Professor Venetti to turn off the machine."
"<s>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined.     While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.     Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve.     Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere?     Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge.     There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal.     Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said.     Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?     Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded.     But too late.     There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal.     If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space.     As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.     I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention.     This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable.     I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.     If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.  <doc-sep>The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.     Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I wasshivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Wasthis the storied ride, I wondered?     Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. Hedid not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting downthe deserted street.     The boys will have it set up in a minute, Tony the racketeer informedme.     What? The firing squad?     The Expendable, of course.     Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted myinvention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' signpasted on it.     He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.     A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.     Okay. Let's go, Tony said, slapping my shoulder.     I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took myteen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, Ifrequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.     The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomywhite shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system viaa blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to takecare of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, asnecessity dictated.     Tony guided my elbow. Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bitnow, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how itwaves to the national anthem.     Here? I spluttered once more. I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothingmore to do with you. Your check is still on deposit....     You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place. The thug'steeth flashed in the night. Throw your contraption into gear, buddy.     That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had goneout of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. Whatremained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a mediumlight position. I flipped.     Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeplydisturbed by what next occurred.     One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.     What have you done? I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.     Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could seethat the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.     Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in theold days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff.There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and youincrease the size of the working area.     You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even knowmechanics.     No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works.     You call that working? I demanded. Do you realize what you havethere, Carmen?     Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of      Startling Stories     .     My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages ofscience-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger wasupheld.     I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.     What was this a test for? I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I hadmade. What are you planning to do now?     This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Kenoand his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat.     Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why,that's      murder     .     Not, Carmen said, without no      corpus delecti     .     The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim, Iremembered from my early Ellery Queen training.     You're talking too much, Professor, Tony suggested. Remember,      you     did it with      your     machine.     Yes, I said at length. And why are we standing here letting thosemachines sit there?  <doc-sep></s>","Tony Carmen is a racketeer who threatens Professor Venetti to invent the machine to decompose corpses without leaving any traces. He is also a criminal who does not care about killing people, so he orders Professor Venetti to conduct the machine to wipe off the warehouse and the people inside. It is also implied that he kills the corpse he wants to get rid of. When he receives the machine Professor Venetti creates, he gives it to his subordinates and lets them modify it. He takes Professor Venetti to the place where they try the machine's function. He has many connections to business, the mafia, and the news, and he knows how to make profits by manipulating the business work behind the scene. When he realizes how much profit the machine can make after seeing its effects, he persuades Professor Venetti to collaborate with him. He leaks the information through the newspaper to attract the business corporates’ attention. When the agent from Atomic Energy Commission informs the harmful consequences of the machine, he strongly disagrees with the ban on the manufacture and the selling of the device. When Professor Venetti turns on the reverse machine, Tony is panicked, and he shouts to order the professor to turn off the engine."
"<s>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  <doc-sep>The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present alongwith Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I hadoutlined.     While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene morevisible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in atripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.     Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly torevolve.     Is it my imagination, the agent asked, or is it getting cooler inhere?     Professor. Carmen gave me a warning nudge.     There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of someshiny gray metal.     Kill the power, Professor, Carmen said.     Can it be, I wondered, that the machine is somehow recreating ordrawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?     Shut the thing off, Venetti! the racketeer demanded.     But too late.     There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turningcircle of metal.     If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on thatmerry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immensevalue on the nature of time and space.     As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me inconnection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.     I hope this personal account when published will end the viciousstory supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought TonyCarmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought hisfinancial backing for the exploitation of my invention.     This is the true, and only true, account of the development of themachine known as the Expendable.     I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized oncemore, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of toolow an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source inthese days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuckwith the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumpedbefore. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.     If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letterstowards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.  <doc-sep>There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the followingmorning.     One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill atthe bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heatprostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street byan ingenious new arson bomb that left virtually no trace. (Maybe thefire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation morecreditable.)     The second item was further over in a science column just off theeditorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new processof waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.     This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.     If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention Idoubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of anew radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way ofspraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck withrefrigerators and hypodermic needles.     I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffeeI made when the doorbell rang.     I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind thefront door.     He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. Action,Professor.     The district attorney has indicted you? I asked hopefully.     He's not even indicted      you     , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on thisplant in the      Times     .     I shook my head. The government will take over the invention, nomatter what the public wants.     The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wantsthis machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now.They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally toyou. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe.     Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with theExpendables?     Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they gota new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. Theywant a revolutionary garbage disposal too.     Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?     I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know, Carmen informed me.Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control ofthe patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% ofits stock.     This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It      was     a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.     But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercialuse?     The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they founda commercial use for it.     There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.     That must be Arcivox now, Carmen growled. They have the bestdetectives in the business. You know what to tell them?     I knew what to tell them.  <doc-sep></s>","Professor Venetti’s inventions are the Expendables which can decompose anything into nothingness without apparent side effects. It is first shown to violate the energy conservation rule when Professor Venetti finds it produces nothing after the decomposition, and he does not know where the decomposed particles go. However, later in the story, it is revealed by an investigator of the Atomic Energy Commission that the energy transformed from mass through the machine turns into heat, resulting in the rising global temperature. The other device he creates is Disexpendable, the reverse version of the Expendable. It is a medium-sized drum in a frame with an unturned coolie’s hat at the bottom. Disexpendable has a low-efficiency engine, and it can consume excess energy produced by the Expendable and lower the temperature. Consuming the excess energy also makes the once-decomposed mass back together again, such as the corpse."
"<s>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  <doc-sep>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation.     You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia?     Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back.     I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step?     The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is?     I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more.     The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly.     I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables?     At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame.     Clever of them.     Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy,      seemingly     . It      seemingly     destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually—     He paused dramatically.     Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of      heat     . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed!     I agree, I said reluctantly.     Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat.     I waved his protests aside.     I      would     agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously.     Why? the young man demanded.     Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell.     Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?     No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is      use up     the excess energy with engines of a specific design.     But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom.     Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential.  <doc-sep>It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the      Citadel     was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime.     It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone.     A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock—      The Avenger     . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting.     Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—     Darling, he began wearily.     Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way.     There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end.      They     still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.     They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer.     She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on.     Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight      them     , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?     She choked, But why can't you take me along?     He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer.     Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter.     He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head.       They'll     comeback—but not as      boys     !     We'll come back, but not as men.     We'll come back, but not as elephants.     We'll come back, but not as octopi.  <doc-sep></s>","Throughout the story, a racketeer demands a professor create a machine to destroy the dead body he has without leaving any traces. The professor invented the device that can destroy mass into nothingness without knowing where the decomposed particles or mass go. However, later in the story, it reveals that the missing energy is turned into heat under the rule of energy conservation, resulting in a rising global temperature. The officials come to ban the usage and production of the machine, but the professor knows that people will still use it for its convenience, just like what people do concerning the wasteful use of water when it is in dire need. The professor ends up creating a machine whose side effect would cool down the temperature to fix the problem. The theme of global warming is explored through the conflicted balance between convenience and environmental damage. People tend to use what is convenient for them with the knowledge of its ecological harm until the consequence is no longer recoverable. The author tries to imply that if we keep wasting resources and damage the environment for our benefit, global warming will reach a point where the earth is no longer recoverable. It is also mentioned in the professor’s thought when he is thinking about selling the machine that tons of patented perpetual motion machines are created, used, and remain as trash without the means to get rid of them. People don’t care whether there is a solution to get rid of those trash completely or don’t know how, but they still produce and use them. This preference for convenience over the environment indicates that humans would not stop their pollution until they bear the consequence of their deeds, not to mention improve the situation of global warming."
"<s>Once seated, the AEC man said I'll get right to the point. You mayfind this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends toconfiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field,and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation.     You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this, Carmen saidingratiatingly. Ever hear of the Mafia?     Not much, the young man admitted earnestly, since the FBI finishedwith its deportations a few years back.     I cleared my throat. I must admit that the destruction of amulti-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask whyyou took this step?     The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. Have younoticed how unseasonably warm it is?     I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if youkeep that suit coat on five minutes more.     The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button ofhis ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrapof sport shirt Carmen wore. We have to dress inconspicuously in theservice, he panted weakly.     I nodded understandingly. What does the heat have to do with theoutlawing of the Expendables?     At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsensethat nuclear tests had something to do with raising the meantemperature of the world, the AEC man said. But our scientistsquickly found they weren't to blame.     Clever of them.     Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsiblefor the higher temperature. Your device violates the law ofconservation of energy,      seemingly     . It      seemingly     destroys matterwithout creating energy. Actually—     He paused dramatically.     Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matterto the energy potential of the planet in the form of      heat     . You seewhat that means? If your devices continue in operation, the meantemperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame.They must be outlawed!     I agree, I said reluctantly.     Tony Carmen spoke up. No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree tothat.     I waved his protests aside.     I      would     agree, I said, except that it wouldn't work. Explain thedanger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and theywill hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, untilwe do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously.     Why? the young man demanded.     Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous useof water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stoppeople from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools arebeing filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will begenerating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell.     Mass psychology isn't my strongest point, the young man saidworriedly. But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?     No, not necessarily, I told him comfortingly. All we have to do is      use up     the excess energy with engines of a specific design.     But can we design those engines in time? the young man wondered withuncharacteristic gloom.     Certainly, I said, practising the power of positive thinking. Nowthat your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fearof mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device andcreate a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energyin our planetary potential.  <doc-sep>There's something to what you say, I admitted in the face of hisunexpected information. But I can hardly turn my invention over toyour entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of theresults of an investigation for the government. Washington will haveto decide what to do with the machine.     Listen, Professor, Carmen began, the Mafia—     What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of theF.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on thismuch. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poorsecurity rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad asbeing dead biologically.     Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced heintended to be cordial.     Of course, he said smoothly you have to give this to Washington butthere are      ways     , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—     You      are     ? I said.     He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.     You      are     .     I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply      leak     theinformation to a few hundred well selected persons about all that yourmachine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expendanything.     I, I interjected, planned to call it the Venetti Machine.     Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?     There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though, I said.     You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set ora hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will becomplete without one.     Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies, I mused. The murder ratewill go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach.     Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford? Tony Carmen asked reasonably....     Naturally, I was aware that the government would      not     be interested inmy machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball.But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to dowith—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do,it doesn't do it.     There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machinespatented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictestsense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity,they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for themeanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there,moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.     I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (withsome possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which theydidn't believe actually could work.     Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got hishands on it.     Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.  <doc-sep>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall.     I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in.     I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else?     Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation.     Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall.     I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially.     I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together.   <doc-sep></s>","The theme of capitalism is explored throughout the story by the greed of the racketeer, Tony Carmen, and how he prefers profits over the environment. In the story, Professor Venetti creates a machine that can easily decompose anything without knowing how it works and where the decomposed particles go. His process of creating the device is also not carefully examined under the safety rules. Despite knowing these manufacturing facts and the uncertainty of its consequences, Tony Carmen makes this machine into a business and sells it for a considerable profit, with the collaboration of Professor Venetti. The theme of capitalism is shown through the preference for profits over safety when seeking profits from a product. It is also explored through Tony’s dealings with business corporates and how he attracts business corporations’ attention to sell their products. Revealed by Tony’s testimony, big business corporations would have detectives and their sources of information to buy the inventions and sell them. Finally, the mechanism of the business world and the dark side of capitalism are shown through Tony’s plan to sell the products and all the dirty work behind it when Professor Venetti’s secretary is reading the letters regarding their business matter from several organizations."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>  He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer    <doc-sep></s>","The story follows the journey of Martin Isherwood, a man whose dream is to become a rocket pilot. Everything he does is to reach that dream. When he turns 17, he cuts away from his family and starts to follow his dream. He participates in different plane races in order to become a pilot. He continuously shows his determination to become a pilot to everyone he meets, and doesn’t care what they say. Mostly everyone tells Ish that he should quit on this path, that he has nothing to prove and that there is no reason to continue pursuing his dream. He doesn’t heed this advice and continues convincing people as to why he should be a rocket pilot. At the end, he manages to do the trip, but does it while thinking that he had already done it before, therefore taking out all the excitement that the first trip would have had. He ends up never driving a rocket again, and dies in the rocket station. "
"<s>  HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running ringsaround the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out ofthe crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face andin his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, andhuskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. Andhe was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his handsmoved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave animpromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to thepersonnel bunker with him.     Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four yearsago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent nowon throwing himself away to the sky.     She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of thepress section and ran over to him. Marty! She brushed past atechnician.     He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. Well, Nan! hemumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched hisshoulder.     I'm sorry, Marty, she said in a rush. I didn't understand. I couldn'tsee how much it all meant. Her face was flushed, and she spoke asrapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured awaythe guards she was afraid would interrupt her.     But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. Youtrained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket!     He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of theshocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move tostop him.     Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying tobreak out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whosecandy is being taken away from him after only one bite.     Rocket! he shouted into her terrified face.       Rocket!     Call that pileof tin a rocket? He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.Who cares about the bloody      machines     ! If I thought roller-skatingwould get me there, I would have gone to work in a      rink     when I wasseventeen! It's      getting there     that counts! Who gives a good goddam      how     it's done, or what with!     And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards cameand got her.    <doc-sep>  He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer    <doc-sep>  ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. No, he said.     But      everybody     fills out an application, she protested.     No. I've      got     a job, he said as he had been saying for the last halfhour.     The Receptionist sighed. If you'll      only     read the literature I'vegiven you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments havebeen cancelled.     Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut thisnonsense. I've got to get back.     But      nobody     goes back.     Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but— He stoppedat the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. Thereception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD basketson the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinaryabout it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out atthe edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....     Let's see your back! he rapped out, his voice high.     She sighed in exasperation. If you'd read the      literature     ... Sheswiveled her chair slowly.     No wings, he said.     Of course not! she snapped. She brushed her hair away from herforehead without his telling her to. No horns, either.     Streamlined, huh? he said bitterly.     It's a little different for everybody, she said with unexpectedgentleness. It would have to be, wouldn't it?     Yeah, I guess so, he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe,and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Sixhours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.     Who do I see?     She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. See?     About getting out of here! Come on, come on, he barked, snapping hisfingers impatiently. I haven't got much time.     She smiled sweetly. Oh, but you do.     Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Comeon! His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firmwith the purpose that drove him.     Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a deskbutton. I'll call the Personnel Manager.     Thanks, he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the waythe Receptionist looked a little like Nan.    <doc-sep></s>","Nan is a woman, who for a while is Martin Isherwood’s girlfriend. She owns a racing plane, which Ish uses to win a race and continue his plan to become a rocket pilot. When she and Ish go on a practice flight, Ish almost crashes them because for a second he wanted the plane all the way to the moon. For a while she wanted to get married to him, but he never reciprocated the feeling because he was too focused on flying to the moon, and ended up driving her away. The story insinuates that they broke up after Ish orbited the earth on a ship. "
"<s>  THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head.     But you've      got     to learn a trade, his father said, exasperated. Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that.     I've got a trade, he answered.     His father smiled thinly. What? he asked patronizingly.     I'm a rocket pilot, the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks.     His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. Yeah, he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle.     A      rocket     pilot! His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. A ro—      oh, no!     —a rocket      pilot     !     The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little.           Marty!      His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs.     What is it, Howard? Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress.     Crazy kid, Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet.       Come back here!      he shouted. A      rocket     pilot, he cursedunder his breath. What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot!     Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me....     Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet!      Comeback here, you idiot!      Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms.     Are you sure, Howard? his wife asked faintly.     Yes, I'm      sure     !     But, where's he going?           Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me?     Marty?           Howard!     Stop acting like a child and      talk     to me! Where is that boygoing?     Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. I don't know, hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.Maybe, the moon, he told her sarcastically.       Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11, had come ofage at seventeen.    <doc-sep>So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting.     So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested.     She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.     Hire a maid, then! he jeered.     And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder.     One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside.     But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him.     Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.     It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him.     He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator.     When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.     This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.     And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond.     From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.  <doc-sep>  THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. No, he said. I am notinterested in working for a degree.     But— The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off thebasket. This program is just like the others you've followed for ninesemesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just aboutevery undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you goingto keep this up?     I'm signed up for Astronomy 101, Isherwood pointed out.     The faculty advisor snorted. A snap course. A breather, after you'vestudied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish?Scared of liberal arts?     Isherwood shook his head. Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And thatAstronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—theywon't be talking about stars as check points, but as things inthemselves. Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it.     The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. Still asnap. What's the difference, how you look at a star?     Isherwood almost winced. Call it a hobby, he said. He looked down athis watch. Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven'tconvinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well giveup, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let'sgo get some beer.     The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. Crazy,he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the nextman.     The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, andsoftly quoted: Though I go bare, take ye no care,I am nothing a-cold;I stuff my skin so full withinOf jolly good ale and old.     Huh? Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to theunfamiliar.     The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. It's apoem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact.     Oh.     Don't you give a damn? the advisor asked, with some peevishness.     Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. Sorry, Dave, but no. It'snot my racket.     The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.Strictly a specialist, huh?     Ish nodded. Call it that.     But      what     , for Pete's sake? What      is     this crazy specialty that blindsyou to all the fine things that man has done?     Ish took a swallow of his beer. Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say itwas the finest thing that man has ever done.     The advisor's lips twisted in derision. That's pretty fanatical, isn'tit?     Uh-huh. Ish waved to the bartender for refills.    <doc-sep></s>","Martin Isherwood is the main character of the story. He only wants one thing in life, which is to drive a rocket to the moon. Everything he does in his life is to reach that goal, he pushes everyone away. He pushes away his parents and his girlfriend because they didn’t understand the dream he was trying to accomplish. He is described as very determined, as he only has one thing in mind. He is also very stubborn, doesn’t heed the advice of others and also is described as irritable. "
"<s>  MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel.     Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.     Ish nodded.     How's that?     The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit.     Odd jobs, first of all?     Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops.     Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it?     Ahuh.     Took some of your pay in flying lessons.     Right.     MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.     Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it.     No family.     Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them.     Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements.     How's things between you and the opposite sex?     About normal.     No wife—no steady girl.     Not a very good idea, in my racket.     MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go!     Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared.     MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives.     Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me?     MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry.     Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put      some     learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!     I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did.     Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.     Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time.     He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.    <doc-sep>  MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked hisstolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulleda coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to hisbunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead.     Ish.     It was MacKenzie, bending over him.     Ish grunted.     It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there.     He was past emotions. Yeah?     We couldn't take the chance. MacKenzie was trying desperately toexplain. You were the best there was—but you'd done something toyourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family.You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You werea rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book thatwasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident.You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, noprops, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong.      We couldn't takethe chance, Ish!          So?     There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might haveforgotten to come back. You might have just kept going.     He remembered the time with the      Navion     , and nodded. I might have.     I hypnotized you, MacKenzie said. You were never dead. I don't knowwhat the details of your hallucination were, but the important part camethrough, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It tookall the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workadaytrip.     I said it was easy, Ish said.     There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill thatcomes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, andyou knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it?     Yeah.      Now get out before I kill you.            He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—hedied on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful worldmourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he reallydied. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at anobservatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead andpurposeless eyes.      TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:     Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note.     This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.  <doc-sep>  SIT DOWN, Ish, the Flight Surgeon said.       They always begin that way     , Isherwood thought. The standard medicalopening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anythinghe might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression ashe ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinderof a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteenhours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go.     How's it? the FS asked.     Ish grinned and shrugged. All right. But he didn't usually grin. Therealization disquieted him a little.     Think you'll make it?     Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usualresponse-pattern. Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out.     Uh-      huh     . The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.Look—you want to talk to a man for a while?     What man? It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything hesaid or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If theywanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it.     Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket. TheFlight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. Air Forceinsisted on it, as a matter of fact, he said. Can't really blame them.After all, it's      their     beast.     Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh? Ish lit thecigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. Sure.Bring him on.     The FS smiled. Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask himin right now?     Sure. Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the FlightSurgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest.    <doc-sep></s>","Mackenzie is an army therapist who first meets Martin when he is asked to vet him before he goes on a trip for the airforce. Mackenzie tries to test Martin a lot, but ends up clearing him and allowing him to fly. At the end, it is also Mackenzie who tells Martin what had actually happened to him, and that what he thought was a routine trip was in fact Martin’s first trip to the moon. Mackenzie struggles with telling Martin this, but ends up doing it. This news ends up hurting Martin mentally, and it is insinuated that Martin holds a grudge forever against Mackenzie."
"<s>  He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer    <doc-sep>What do you      do     ? Steffens asked.     Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: We can do verylittle. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us atbirth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding thatknowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the naturalsciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, isto serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that muchmore fit to serve when the Makers return.     When they return? It had not occurred to Steffens until now that therobots expected the Makers to do so.     Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. I see you hadsurmised that the Makers were not coming back.     If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then.But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.     It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why elsewould we have been built?     Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, toElb, was no question at all.     Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly haveknown—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was along time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into theback of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy afaith.     But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb thestructure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eator sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffensmentioned God.     God? the robot repeated without comprehension. What is God?     Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:     It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that youwere the Makers returning— Steffens remembered the brief lapse, theseeming disappointment he had sensed—but then we probed your mindsand found that you were not, that you were another kind of being,unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even— Elb caughthimself—you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubledover who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology,but it seemed to have a peculiar— Elb paused for a long while—anuntouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you.     Steffens understood. He nodded.     The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. TheMakers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask themwho made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.     It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.     But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.  <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance.     No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.     Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron.     But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.     He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference.  <doc-sep></s>","One of the greatest challenges that Martin faces in his journey to become a rocket pilot is the negativity that comes from other people. Almost everyone that Martin meets advises him that he is wasting his life, and that he should focus on something more realistic that can allow him to have a family. His parents, his girlfriend, and Mackenzie all tell him that he should settle for a plane pilot or should focus his career on something else, something less risky. These words only help to make Martin more determined to become a pilot, because he wants to prove everyone wrong. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep>  Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ...     CONTROL GROUP     By ROGER DEE  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set in the fourth millennium, and humans have invented a technology - the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle -  that allows them to explore the neighboring cosmic systems. In the past, they were invaded by an alien species called Hymenops, or the Bees, who enslaved Terrans, and tried to colonize other planets but unexpectedly left years later. The crew members of the spaceship Marco Four are on a mission looking for the slave colonies that were abandoned by the Bees. Farrell, the navigator, is arguing with captain Stryker, Gibson - an engineer - and Xavier, the ship’s mechanic, and is trying to convince them to land on Alphard Six and claiming the planet is not inhabited. Stryker reminds him about the importance of vigilance on unexplored territories and tells Farrell to find a reconnaissance spiral. Something resembling an atomic torpedo explodes near the ship, rocking it. Later, the crew starts discussing who can possibly live on Alphard Six. They know that in the year 3000, there was no one on the planet. The ones who attacked them might be the Hymenopes or some Terrans enslaved by them, or even an unknown alien culture. The screen shows a town with a thousand buildings and a prehistoric ship with rocket propulsion. This ship seems to be eleven hundred years old, which is puzzling. This atomic-powered spaceship neither could’ve been constructed here nor could it have successfully traveled for hundreds of years. The area around Alphard Six was guarded by the Bees for several hundred years. So, it would be impossible for this ancient Terran ship to land on the planet without being detected by them. Farrell interrupts the discussion and suggests they go down and look. He gets on a helihopper, and Xavier quickly disappears in his scouter. The two other crew members left on the ship say that they just detected an electromagnetic vibration. Farrell notices a bonfire near the town. He is ready to report it when his helihopper suddenly jerks, a flare of electric discharge blinds him, and Farrell loses consciousness. He wakes up in an infirmary. A doctor speaks in unintelligible words and gestures to Farrell to follow him. While walking through the corridors of the ancient ship, he notices Xavier’s scouter, and later the Marco Four. Shocked, Farrell rapidly plunges inside the spaceship, and it darts up when suddenly Stryker appears from the sleeping cubicle and orders him to fly back. Gibson explains that Farrell piloted his helihopper into power lines and crashed. The Alphardians tried to communicate with the crew using an electromagnetic wave language and never attacked them. The Bees made the ancestors of these people believe that they were the descendants of an Earth expedition that perished a thousand years ago. The Alphardians don’t even know the Hymenops. Apparently, the Bees wanted to monitor the human species in a natural habitat. But they never understood human logic and after all, left all their colonies. "
"<s>  The  cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the      Marco Four     down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter.     Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven:      No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper—          Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you      sleep     with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow?     Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand.     No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi.     And I think      you     live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will!     But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here?     He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it.     Gib's right, he said. Henearly added      as usual     . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you?     Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the      Marco Four     out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors.     Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms.      So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible.     When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The      Marco Four     , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon.     Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality.     Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain.      Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us?     I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft.     Stryker was not reassured.     That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know.     They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six.     There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world.     Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds.     But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning.     The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet.     Gibson disagreed.     We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight.     Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him.     If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now?     Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics.     Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name      are     they?      Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory.     Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime?     I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait.     Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur.     Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive.     You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier.     Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the      MarcoFour     .     Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe      Lament for Old Terra     withyour accordion.     Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer.     They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck?     Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur?     Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet?     The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the      Marco Four     .     They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky.     At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav?     Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets.     The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission.      Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation.           Continuous fission?     GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that!     Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad      men     ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk.     They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end—     Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav?     Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since.     Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk—     Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get      here     ?     Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim.     Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not—           Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings     , Strykerquoted his Handbook,       can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity     .     If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here.      He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued.     The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here?     It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here.     We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us      how     ,we're ready to move.     I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time.     Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation.      Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining.     Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget.     Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship      couldn't     have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated—     And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six.     But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation.     Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew?     We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now?     Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav?      But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead.     We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform?     Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures      did     succeed?     Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless.     Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal.     Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us.     Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures.     I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown—     Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness.      He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery.     Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship.     At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable.     Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside.     The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the      Marco     would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon.     The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery.     The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short.     A      creche     , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated.     One of those old ventures      had     succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application?     Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground.     He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded.     The      Marco Four     , ports open,lay grounded outside.      Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid.     Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence.     He reached the      Marco Four     with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly.     He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim.     What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down!     Farrell gaped at him, speechless.     Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe      Marco Four     down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians.     Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble.     Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too?     It was Gibson's turn to stare.     No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic.           Friendly?     That torpedo—     It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines.     Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully.     We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once.     They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight?     The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here.     Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where      did     they come from?     From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments.     Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation.     Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation.     Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.     But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense!     But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out.     Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture?     Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>   AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep></s>","Arthur Farrell is the ship’s navigator, the youngest and most impulsive member of the crew. He tries to convince captain Stryker to land on Alphard Six, claiming that it cannot be inhabited. Stryker doesn’t agree and orders Farrell to find a reconnaissance spiral. After the torpedo explodes near the ship, they all discuss who the attackers could be. Farrell points out that there was no sign of life on Alphard Six around the year 3000, so the inhabitants appeared after this. Farrell agrees to be sent to the planet’s surface and explore. They continue talking and soon see an ancient ship in the center of the planet’s town. Farrell is quick to state that it couldn’t have come from Earth because it would've taken hundreds of years to travel here, and the ship’s ancient technology is not effective enough for such a voyage. Irritated, he interrupts the discussion and suggests he and Xavier go down and see who the inhabitants are. Farrell flies in a helihopper and notices a bonfire near the town. He starts reporting when the helihopper’s carriage crumples, an electric discharge blinds Farrell, and he momentarily loses consciousness. Later, he wakes up with a brutal headache in an infirmary inside the ancient ship. A medic with anachronistic spectacles and gray hair uses unintelligible words and gestures to Farrell to follow him. They pass several open ports, and he sees Xavier’s scouter and later the Marco Four. Shocked, he runs to the spaceship and takes off, when unexpectedly Stryker appears near him, ordering him to take the ship down. Soon Gibson explains that Farrell piloted into metallic power lines, and the crash put him out for almost a day. These Alphardians are incredibly friendly. The object the crew considered a torpedo was actually an emergency boat the inhabitants sent to the spaceship to make sure the people on board noticed their colony. Their spaceship’s technology set off the atomic engines of the boat, making it explode. Gibson and Xavier recognized an old language of frequency modulation the night before, heard about Farrell’s crash, and landed the ship to help. It turns out that the expedition that left Terra for Sirius in 2171 perished soon, and the Bees brought the spacecraft here. They also brought some people from their peripheral colonies conditioned to believe themselves descendants of the expedition. They have been let alone. Farrell understands that the Bees were trying to monitor this group and understand humans’ logic, but they never did. "
"<s>  The  cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the      Marco Four     down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter.     Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven:      No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper—          Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you      sleep     with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow?     Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand.     No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi.     And I think      you     live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will!     But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here?     He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it.     Gib's right, he said. Henearly added      as usual     . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you?     Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the      Marco Four     out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors.     Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms.      So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible.     When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The      Marco Four     , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon.     Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality.     Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain.      Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us?     I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft.     Stryker was not reassured.     That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know.     They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six.     There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world.     Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds.     But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning.     The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet.     Gibson disagreed.     We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight.     Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him.     If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now?     Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics.     Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name      are     they?      Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory.     Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime?     I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait.     Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur.     Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive.     You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier.     Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the      MarcoFour     .     Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe      Lament for Old Terra     withyour accordion.     Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer.     They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck?     Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur?     Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet?     The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the      Marco Four     .     They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky.     At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav?     Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets.     The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission.      Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation.           Continuous fission?     GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that!     Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad      men     ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk.     They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end—     Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav?     Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since.     Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk—     Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get      here     ?     Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim.     Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not—           Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings     , Strykerquoted his Handbook,       can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity     .     If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here.      He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued.     The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here?     It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here.     We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us      how     ,we're ready to move.     I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time.     Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation.      Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining.     Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget.     Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship      couldn't     have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated—     And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six.     But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation.     Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew?     We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now?     Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav?      But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead.     We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform?     Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures      did     succeed?     Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless.     Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal.     Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us.     Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures.     I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown—     Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness.      He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery.     Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship.     At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable.     Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside.     The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the      Marco     would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon.     The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery.     The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short.     A      creche     , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated.     One of those old ventures      had     succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application?     Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground.     He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded.     The      Marco Four     , ports open,lay grounded outside.      Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid.     Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence.     He reached the      Marco Four     with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly.     He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim.     What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down!     Farrell gaped at him, speechless.     Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe      Marco Four     down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians.     Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble.     Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too?     It was Gibson's turn to stare.     No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic.           Friendly?     That torpedo—     It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines.     Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully.     We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once.     They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight?     The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here.     Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where      did     they come from?     From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments.     Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation.     Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation.     Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.     But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense!     But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out.     Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture?     Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  <doc-sep>III     Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality?     Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far.     Not especially, sir, he mumbled.     The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor.     Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality.     You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me.     Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman.     Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will.     Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us.     What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution.     Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits.     Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits?     But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently.     Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times....     For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face.     Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow.     Jack looked at him blankly.     Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained.  <doc-sep></s>","Stryker is a crew member of the Marco Four, nominally captain of the group sent on a mission to locate the Terran slaves that were abandoned by the Bees. He seems experienced, calm, and disciplined, always following the Reclamation Handbook. Stryker has fought the Hymenops and spent a lot of time trying to understand their behavior. He values his team and doesn’t want to risk them or their ship in the search for the unknown and, for example, was ready to pull Xavier back when they just detected the waves, fearing it could be something lethal. He appreciates Farrell’s eagerness to find the new and enjoys bantering with him; he also respects other crew members, like Gibson and Xavier, and attentively listens to them when they discuss the origin of the atomic-powered ship. Stryker is intelligent enough to determine that this ancient ship couldn’t have been constructed on this planet - it was brought from somewhere else."
"<s>  Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ...     CONTROL GROUP     By ROGER DEE  <doc-sep>   AIDE MEMOIRE     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Fustians looked like turtles—but     they could move fast when they chose!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave.     This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups—     Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five.     The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—     That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody.     Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception.     I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup—     To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now.     Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said.     If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here.     That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us.     Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow.     For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins on a spaceship called the Marco Four. It is working on Ringwave generators and hangs inside the orbit of a dun-colored moon of the green planet Alphard Six. This ship has several tools, including a magnoscanner, the Zero Interval Transfer computer, and a screen that shows the surface of the planet. Then Farrell gets on a helihopper and soon crashes. The next day he wakes up in an infirmary with white walls, tables, lockers, chests, and some unfamiliar chemical odor.  It is one of the rooms of the ancient ship located in the central square of the town on Alphard Six. Farrell then walks down a bare corridor with a metal floor and rare open ports that let in a flood of reddish sunlight. He goes through storage rooms, hydroponics gardens, a gymnasium, a nursery, and a power room. He also notices the Marco Four parked near the square."
"<s>  The  cool green disk of AlphardSix on the screen wasinfinitely welcome after the ariddesolation and stinking swamplandsof the inner planets, anairy jewel of a world that mighthave been designed specificallyfor the hard-earned month ofrest ahead. Navigator Farrell,youngest and certainly most impulsiveof the three-man TerranReclamations crew, would haveset the      Marco Four     down atonce but for the greater cautionof Stryker, nominally captain ofthe group, and of Gibson, engineer,and linguist. Xavier, theship's little mechanical, had—aswas usual and proper—no voicein the matter.     Reconnaissance spiral first,Arthur, Stryker said firmly. Hechuckled at Farrell's instantscowl, his little eyes twinklingand his naked paunch quakingover the belt of his shipboardshorts. Chapter One, SubsectionFive, Paragraph Twenty-seven:      No planetfall on an unreclaimedworld shall be deemedsafe without proper—          Farrell, as Stryker had expected,interrupted with characteristicimpatience. Do you      sleep     with that damned ReclamationsHandbook, Lee? Alphard Sixisn't an unreclaimed world—itwas never colonized before theHymenop invasion back in 3025,so why should it be inhabitednow?     Gibson, who for four hourshad not looked up from his interminablechess game withXavier, paused with a beleagueredknight in one blunt brownhand.     No point in taking chances,Gibson said in his neutral baritone.He shrugged thick bareshoulders, his humorless black-browedface unmoved, whenFarrell included him in hisscowl. We're two hundred twenty-sixlight-years from Sol, atthe old limits of Terran expansion,and there's no knowingwhat we may turn up here. Alphard'swas one of the first systemsthe Bees took over. It musthave been one of the last to beabandoned when they pulled backto 70 Ophiuchi.     And I think      you     live for theday, Farrell said acidly, whenwe'll stumble across a functioningdome of live, buzzing Hymenops.Damn it, Gib, the Beespulled out a hundred years ago,before you and I were born—neitherof us ever saw a Hymenop,and never will!     But I saw them, Strykersaid. I fought them for the betterpart of the century they werehere, and I learned there's nopredicting nor understandingthem. We never knew why theycame nor why they gave up andleft. How can we know whetherthey'd leave a rear-guard orbooby trap here?     He put a paternal hand onFarrell's shoulder, understandingthe younger man's eagernessand knowing that their close-knitteam would have been themore poorly balanced without it.     Gib's right, he said. Henearly added      as usual     . We're onrest leave at the moment, yes,but our mission is still to findTerran colonies enslaved andabandoned by the Bees, not torisk our necks and a valuableReorientations ship by landingblind on an unobserved planet.We're too close already. Cut inyour shields and find a reconnaissancespiral, will you?     Grumbling, Farrell punchedcoordinates on the Ringwaveboard that lifted the      Marco Four     out of her descent and restoredthe bluish enveloping haze ofher repellors.     Stryker's caution was justifiedon the instant. The speedingstreamlined shape that had flashedup unobserved from belowswerved sharply and exploded ina cataclysmic blaze of atomicfire that rocked the ship wildlyand flung the three men to thefloor in a jangling roar ofalarms.      So the Handbook tacticiansknew what they were about,Stryker said minutes later. Deliberatelyhe adopted the smugtone best calculated to sting Farrellout of his first self-reproach,and grinned when the navigatorbristled defensively. Some oftheir enjoinders seem a littlestuffy and obvious at times, butthey're eminently sensible.     When Farrell refused to bebaited Stryker turned to Gibson,who was busily assessing thedamage done to the ship's morefragile equipment, and to Xavier,who searched the planet'ssurface with the ship's magnoscanner.The      Marco Four     , Ringwavegenerators humming gently,hung at the moment justinside the orbit of Alphard Six'ssingle dun-colored moon.     Gibson put down a test meterwith an air of finality.     Nothing damaged but theZero Interval Transfer computer.I can realign that in a coupleof hours, but it'll have to bedone before we hit Transferagain.      Stryker looked dubious.What if the issue is forced beforethe ZIT unit is repaired?Suppose they come up after us?     I doubt that they can. Anyinstallation crudely enoughequipped to trust in guided missilesis hardly likely to have developedefficient space craft.     Stryker was not reassured.     That torpedo of theirs wasdeadly enough, he said. Andits nature reflects the nature ofthe people who made it. Any racevicious enough to use atomiccharges is too dangerous totrifle with. Worry made comicalcreases in his fat, good-humoredface. We'll have to findout who they are and whythey're here, you know.     They can't be Hymenops,Gibson said promptly. First,because the Bees pinned theirfaith on Ringwave energy fields,as we did, rather than on missiles.Second, because there's nodome on Six.     There were three emptydomes on Five, which is a desertplanet, Farrell pointed out.Why didn't they settle Six? It'sa more habitable world.     Gibson shrugged. I know theBees always erected domes onevery planet they colonized, Arthur,but precedent is a fallibletool. And it's even more firmlyestablished that there's no possibilityof our rationalizing themotivations of a culture as alienas the Hymenops'—we've beenover that argument a hundredtimes on other reclaimedworlds.     But this was never an unreclaimedworld, Farrell saidwith the faint malice of one toorecently caught in the wrong.Alphard Six was surveyed andseeded with Terran bacteriaaround the year 3000, but theBees invaded before we couldcolonize. And that means we'llhave to rule out any resurgentcolonial group down there, becauseSix never had a colony inthe beginning.     The Bees have been gone forover a hundred years, Strykersaid. Colonists might have migratedfrom another Terran-occupiedplanet.     Gibson disagreed.     We've touched at every inhabitedworld in this sector, Lee,and not one surviving colony hasdeveloped space travel on itsown. The Hymenops had a hundredyears to condition their humanslaves to ignorance ofeverything beyond their immediateenvironment—the motivesbehind that conditioning usuallyescape us, but that's beside thepoint—and they did a thoroughjob of it. The colonists have hadno more than a century of freedomsince the Bees pulled out,and four generations simplyisn't enough time for any subjugatedculture to climb fromslavery to interstellar flight.     Stryker made a padding turnabout the control room, tuggingunhappily at the scanty fringeof hair the years had left him.     If they're neither Hymenopsnor resurgent colonists, he said,then there's only one choice remaining—they'realiens from asystem we haven't reached yet,beyond the old sphere of Terranexploration. We always assumedthat we'd find other races outhere someday, and that they'dbe as different from us in formand motivation as the Hymenops.Why not now?     Gibson said seriously, Notprobable, Lee. The same objectionthat rules out the Bees appliesto any trans-Alphardianculture—they'd have to be beyondthe atomic fission stage,else they'd never have attemptedinterstellar flight. The Ringwavewith its Zero Interval Transferprinciple and instantaneous communicationsapplications is theonly answer to long-range travel,and if they'd had that theywouldn't have bothered withatomics.     Stryker turned on him almostangrily. If they're not Hymenopsor humans or aliens, thenwhat in God's name      are     they?      Aye, there's the rub, Farrellsaid, quoting a passagewhose aptness had somehow seenit through a dozen reorganizationsof insular tongue and afinal translation to universalTerran. If they're none of thosethree, we've only one conclusionleft. There's no one down thereat all—we're victims of the firstjoint hallucination in psychiatrichistory.     Stryker threw up his hands insurrender. We can't identifythem by theorizing, and thatbrings us down to the businessof first-hand investigation.Who's going to bell the cat thistime?     I'd like to go, Gibson saidat once. The ZIT computer canwait.     Stryker vetoed his offer aspromptly. No, the ZIT comesfirst. We may have to run for it,and we can't set up a Transferjump without the computer. It'sgot to be me or Arthur.     Farrell felt the familiar chillof uneasiness that inevitablypreceded this moment of decision.He was not lacking in courage,else the circumstances underwhich he had worked for thepast ten years—the sometimesperilous, sometimes downrightcharnel conditions left by thefleeing Hymenop conquerors—wouldhave broken him longago. But that same hard experiencehad honed rather thanblunted the edge of his imagination,and the prospect of a close-quartersstalking of an unknownand patently hostile force wasanything but attractive.     You two did the field workon the last location, he said.It's high time I took my turn—andGod knows I'd go mad ifI had to stay inship and listento Lee memorizing his Handbooksubsections or to Gib practicingdead languages with Xavier.     Stryker laughed for the firsttime since the explosion thathad so nearly wrecked the      MarcoFour     .     Good enough. Though itwouldn't be more diverting tolisten for hours to you improvisingenharmonic variations onthe      Lament for Old Terra     withyour accordion.     Gibson, characteristically, hada refinement to offer.     They'll be alerted down therefor a reconnaissance sally, hesaid. Why not let Xavier takethe scouter down for overt diversion,and drop Arthur off inthe helihopper for a low-levelcheck?     Stryker looked at Farrell. Allright, Arthur?     Good enough, Farrell said.And to Xavier, who had notmoved from his post at the magnoscanner:How does it look,Xav? Have you pinned downtheir base yet?     The mechanical answered himin a voice as smooth and clear—andas inflectionless—as a 'cellonote. The planet seems uninhabitedexcept for a large islandsome three hundred miles indiameter. There are twenty-sevensmall agrarian hamlets surroundedby cultivated fields.There is one city of perhaps athousand buildings with a centralsquare. In the square restsa grounded spaceship of approximatelyten times the bulkof the      Marco Four     .     They crowded about the visionscreen, jostling Xavier's jointedgray shape in their interest. Thecentral city lay in minutest detailbefore them, the batteredhulk of the grounded ship glintingrustily in the late afternoonsunlight. Streets radiated awayfrom the square in orderly succession,the whole so clearlydepicted that they could see thethrongs of people surging upand down, tiny foreshortenedfaces turned toward the sky.     At least they're human,Farrell said. Relief replaced insome measure his earlier uneasiness.Which means that they'reTerran, and can be dealt withaccording to Reclamations routine.Is that hulk spaceworthy,Xav?     Xavier's mellow drone assumedthe convention vibrato thatindicated stark puzzlement. Itsbreached hull makes the ship incapableof flight. Apparently itis used only to supply power tothe outlying hamlets.     The mechanical put a flexiblegray finger upon an indicatorgraph derived from a compositesection of detector meters. Thepower transmitted seems to begross electric current conveyedby metallic cables. It is generatedthrough a crudely governedprocess of continuous atomicfission.      Farrell, himself appalled bythe information, still found himselfable to chuckle at Stryker'sbellow of consternation.           Continuous fission?     GoodGod, only madmen would deliberatelyrun a risk like that!     Farrell prodded him withcheerful malice. Why say mad      men     ? Maybe they're humanoidaliens who thrive on hard radiationand look on the danger ofbeing blown to hell in the middleof the night as a satisfactoryrisk.     They're not alien, Gibsonsaid positively. Their architectureis Terran, and so is theirship. The ship is incrediblyprimitive, though; those batteriesof tubes at either end—     Are thrust reaction jets,Stryker finished in an awedvoice. Primitive isn't the word,Gib—the thing is prehistoric!Rocket propulsion hasn't beenused in spacecraft since—howlong, Xav?     Xavier supplied the informationwith mechanical infallibility.Since the year 2100 whenthe Ringwave propulsion-communicationprinciple was discovered.That principle has servedmen since.     Farrell stared in blank disbeliefat the anomalous craft onthe screen. Primitive, as Strykerhad said, was not the wordfor it: clumsily ovoid, studdedwith torpedo domes and turretsand bristling at either end withpropulsion tubes, it lay at thecenter of its square like a rustedrelic of a past largely destroyedand all but forgotten. What amagnificent disregard its buildersmust have had, he thought,for their lives and the geneticpurity of their posterity! Thesullen atomic fires banked inthat oxidizing hulk—     Stryker said plaintively, Ifyou're right, Gib, then we'remore in the dark than ever. Howcould a Terran-built ship elevenhundred years old get      here     ?     Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player'scontemplation of alternatives,seemed hardly to hearhim.     Logic or not-logic, Gibsonsaid. If it's a Terran artifact,we can discover the reason forits presence. If not—           Any problem posed by onegroup of human beings     , Strykerquoted his Handbook,       can beresolved by any other group, regardlessof ideology or conditioning,because the basicperceptive abilities of both mustbe the same through identicalheredity     .     If it's an imitation, and thisis another Hymenop experimentin condition ecology, then we'restumped to begin with, Gibsonfinished. Because we're notequipped to evaluate the psychologyof alien motivation. We'vegot to determine first which caseapplies here.      He waited for Farrell's expectedirony, and when thenavigator forestalled him by remaininggrimly quiet, continued.     The obvious premise is thata Terran ship must have beenbuilt by Terrans. Question: Wasit flown here, or built here?     It couldn't have been builthere, Stryker said. AlphardSix was surveyed just before theBees took over in 3025, and therewas nothing of the sort herethen. It couldn't have been builtduring the two and a quartercenturies since; it's obviouslymuch older than that. It wasflown here.     We progress, Farrell saiddryly. Now if you'll tell us      how     ,we're ready to move.     I think the ship was built onTerra during the Twenty-secondCentury, Gibson said calmly.The atomic wars during thatperiod destroyed practically allhistorical records along with thetechnology of the time, but I'veread well-authenticated reportsof atomic-driven ships leavingTerra before then for the nearerstars. The human race climbedout of its pit again during theTwenty-third Century and developedthe technology that gaveus the Ringwave. Certainly noatomic-powered ships were builtafter the wars—our records arecomplete from that time.     Farrell shook his head at theinference. I've read any numberof fanciful romances on thetheme, Gib, but it won't standup in practice. No shipboard societycould last through a thousand-yearspace voyage. It's aphysical and psychological impossibility.There's got to besome other explanation.      Gibson shrugged. We canonly eliminate the least likelyalternatives and accept the simplestone remaining.     Then we can eliminate thisone now, Farrell said flatly. Itentails a thousand-year voyage,which is an impossibility for anygross reaction drive; the applicationof suspended animationor longevity or a successive-generationprogram, and a finalpenetration of Hymenop-occupiedspace to set up a colony underthe very antennae of theBees. Longevity wasn't developeduntil around the year 3000—Leehere was one of the first toprofit by it, if you remember—andsuspended animation is stillto come. So there's one theoryyou can forget.     Arthur's right, Stryker saidreluctantly. An atomic-poweredship      couldn't     have made such atrip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendantproject couldn't havelasted through forty generations,speculative fiction to thecontrary—the later generationswould have been too far removedin ideology and intent fromtheir ancestors. They'd haveadapted to shipboard life as thenorm. They'd have atrophiedphysically, perhaps even havemutated—     And they'd never havefought past the Bees during theHymenop invasion and occupation,Farrell finished triumphantly.The Bees had betterdetection equipment than wehad. They'd have picked thisship up long before it reachedAlphard Six.     But the ship wasn't here in3000, Gibson said, and it isnow. Therefore it must have arrivedat some time during thetwo hundred years of Hymenopoccupation and evacuation.     Farrell, tangled in contradictions,swore bitterly. Butwhy should the Bees let themthrough? The three domes onFive are over two hundred yearsold, which means that the Beeswere here before the ship came.Why didn't they blast it or enslaveits crew?     We haven't touched on all thepossibilities, Gibson remindedhim. We haven't even establishedyet that these people werenever under Hymenop control.Precedent won't hold always, andthere's no predicting nor evaluatingthe motives of an alienrace. We never understood theHymenops because there's nocommon ground of logic betweenus. Why try to interpret theirintentions now?     Farrell threw up his hands indisgust. Next you'll say this isan ancient Terran expeditionthat actually succeeded! There'sonly one way to answer thequestions we've raised, andthat's to go down and see forourselves. Ready, Xav?      But uncertainty nagged uneasilyat him when Farrell foundhimself alone in the helihopperwith the forest flowing beneathlike a leafy river and Xavier'sscouter disappearing bulletlikeinto the dusk ahead.     We never found a colony soadvanced, Farrell thought. Supposethis is a Hymenop experimentthat really paid off? TheBees did some weird and wonderfulthings with humanguinea pigs—what if they'vecreated the ultimate booby traphere, and primed it with conditionedmyrmidons in our ownform?     Suppose, he thought—and deridedhimself for thinking it—oneof those suicidal old interstellarventures      did     succeed?     Xavier's voice, a mellowdrone from the helihopper'sRingwave-powered visicom, cutsharply into his musing. Theship has discovered the scouterand is training an electronicbeam upon it. My instrumentsrecord an electromagnetic vibrationpattern of low power butrapidly varying frequency. Theoperation seems pointless.     Stryker's voice followed, querulouswith worry: I'd betterpull Xav back. It may be somethinglethal.     Don't, Gibson's baritone advised.Surprisingly, there wasexcitement in the engineer'svoice. I think they're trying tocommunicate with us.     Farrell was on the point ofdemanding acidly to know howone went about communicatingby means of a fluctuating electricfield when the unexpectedcessation of forest diverted hisattention. The helihopper scuddedover a cultivated areaof considerable extent, fieldsstretching below in a vague randomcheckerboard of lighter anddarker earth, an undefined clusterof buildings at their center.There was a central bonfire thatburned like a wild red eyeagainst the lower gloom, and inits plunging ruddy glow he madeout an urgent scurrying of shadowyfigures.     I'm passing over a hamlet,Farrell reported. The one nearestthe city, I think. There'ssomething odd going ondown—     Catastrophe struck so suddenlythat he was caught completelyunprepared. The helihopper'sflimsy carriage bucked andcrumpled. There was a blindingflare of electric discharge, apungent stink of ozone and astunning shock that flung himheadlong into darkness.      He awoke slowly with a brutalheadache and a conviction ofnightmare heightened by theoutlandish tone of his surroundings.He lay on a narrow bed ina whitely antiseptic infirmary,an oblong metal cell clutteredwith a grimly utilitarian arrayof tables and lockers and chests.The lighting was harsh andoverbright and the air hungthick with pungent unfamiliarchemical odors. From somewhere,far off yet at the sametime as near as the bulkheadabove him, came the unceasingdrone of machinery.     Farrell sat up, groaning,when full consciousness made hisposition clear. He had been shotdown by God knew what sort ofdevastating unorthodox weaponand was a prisoner in thegrounded ship.     At his rising, a white-smockedfat man with anachronistic spectaclesand close-cropped grayhair came into the room, movingwith the professional assuranceof a medic. The man stoppedshort at Farrell's stare andspoke; his words were utterlyunintelligible, but his gesturewas unmistakable.     Farrell followed him dumblyout of the infirmary and downa bare corridor whose metalfloor rang coldly underfoot. Anopen port near the corridor's endrelieved the blankness of walland let in a flood of reddish Alphardiansunlight; Farrell slowedto look out, wondering howlong he had lain unconscious,and felt panic knife at himwhen he saw Xavier's scouter lying,port open and undefended,on the square outside.     The mechanical had been aseasily taken as himself, then.Stryker and Gibson, for all theirprofessional caution, would fareno better—they could not haveoverlooked the capture of Farrelland Xavier, and when theytried as a matter of course torescue them the      Marco     would bestruck down in turn by the sameweapon.     The fat medic turned andsaid something urgent in hisunintelligible tongue. Farrell,dazed by the enormity of whathad happened, followed withoutprotest into an intersecting waythat led through a bewilderingsuccession of storage rooms andhydroponics gardens, through asmall gymnasium fitted withphysical training equipment ingraduated sizes and finally intoa soundproofed place that couldhave been nothing but a nursery.     The implication behind itspresence stopped Farrell short.     A      creche     , he said, stunned.He had a wild vision of endlessgenerations of children growingup in this dim and stuffy room,to be taught from their firsttoddling steps the functions theymust fulfill before the ventureof which they were a part couldbe consummated.     One of those old ventures      had     succeeded, he thought, and wasawed by the daring of that thousand-yearodyssey. The realizationleft him more alarmed thanbefore—for what technical marvelsmight not an isolated groupof such dogged specialists havedeveloped during a millenniumof application?     Such a weapon as had broughtdown the helihopper and scouterwas patently beyond reach of hisown latter-day technology. Perhaps,he thought, its possessionexplained the presence of thesepeople here in the first strongholdof the Hymenops; perhapsthey had even fought and defeatedthe Bees on their own invadedground.     He followed his white-smockedguide through a power roomwhere great crude generatorswhirred ponderously, pouringout gross electric current intoarm-thick cables. They werenearing the bow of the shipwhen they passed by anotheropen port and Farrell, glancingout over the lowered rampway,saw that his fears for Strykerand Gibson had been wellgrounded.     The      Marco Four     , ports open,lay grounded outside.      Farrell could not have said,later, whether his next movewas planned or reflexive. Thewhole desperate issue seemed tohang suspended for a breathlessmoment upon a hair-fine edge ofdecision, and in that instant hemade his bid.     Without pausing in his stridehe sprang out and through theport and down the steep planeof the ramp. The rough stonepavement of the square drummedunderfoot; sore musclestore at him, and weakness waslike a weight about his neck. Heexpected momentarily to beblasted out of existence.     He reached the      Marco Four     with the startled shouts of hisguide ringing unintelligibly inhis ears. The port yawned; heplunged inside and stabbed atcontrols without waiting to seathimself. The ports swung shut.The ship darted up under hismanipulation and arrowed intospace with an acceleration thatsprung his knees and made hisvision swim blackly.     He was so weak with strainand with the success of his coupthat he all but fainted whenStryker, his scanty hair tousledand his fat face comical with bewilderment,stumbled out of hissleeping cubicle and bellowed athim.     What the hell are you doing,Arthur? Take us down!     Farrell gaped at him, speechless.     Stryker lumbered past himand took the controls, spiralingthe      Marco Four     down. Menswarmed outside the ports whenthe Reclamations craft settledgently to the square again. Gibsonand Xavier reached the shipfirst; Gibson came inside quickly,leaving the mechanical outsidemaking patient explanationsto an excited group of Alphardians.     Gibson put a reassuring handon Farrell's arm. It's all right,Arthur. There's no trouble.     Farrell said dumbly, I don'tunderstand. They didn't shootyou and Xav down too?     It was Gibson's turn to stare.     No one shot you down! Thesepeople are primitive enough touse metallic power lines tocarry electricity to their hamlets,an anachronism you forgotlast night. You piloted the helihopperinto one of those lines,and the crash put you out forthe rest of the night and mostof today. These Alphardians arefriendly, so desperately happy tobe found again that it's reallypathetic.           Friendly?     That torpedo—     It wasn't a torpedo at all,Stryker put in. Understandingof the error under which Farrellhad labored erased hisearlier irritation, and he chuckledcommiseratingly. They hadone small boat left for emergencymissions, and sent it up tocontact us in the fear that wemight overlook their settlementand move on. The boat wasatomic powered, and our shieldscreens set off its engines.     Farrell dropped into a chair atthe chart table, limp with reaction.He was suddenly exhausted,and his head ached dully.     We cracked the communicationsproblem early last night,Gibson said. These people usean ancient system of electromagneticwave propagation calledfrequency modulation, and onceLee and I rigged up a suitabletransceiver the rest was simple.Both Xav and I recognized theold language; the natives reportedyour accident, and we camedown at once.     They really came from Terra?They lived through a thousandyears of flight?     The ship left Terra forSirius in 2171, Gibson said.But not with these peopleaboard, or their ancestors. Thatexpedition perished after lessthan a light-year when itshydroponics system failed. TheHymenops found the ship derelictwhen they invaded us, andbrought it to Alphard Six inwhat was probably their first experimentwith human subjects.The ship's log shows clearlywhat happened to the originalcomplement. The rest is deduciblefrom the situation here.     Farrell put his hands to histemples and groaned. The crashmust have scrambled my wits.Gib, where      did     they come from?     From one of the first peripheralcolonies conquered by theBees, Gibson said patiently.The Hymenops were long-rangeplanners, remember, and mastersof hypnotic conditioning. Theystocked the ship with a captivecrew of Terrans conditioned tobelieve themselves descendantsof the original crew, andgrounded it here in disabledcondition. They left for AlphardFive then, to watch developments.     Succeeding generations ofcolonists grew up accepting thefact that their ship had missedSirius and made planetfall here—theystill don't know wherethey really are—by luck. Theynever knew about the Hymenops,and they've struggled alongwith an inadequate technology inthe hope that a later expeditionwould find them. They found thetruth hard to take, but they'reeager to enjoy the fruits of Terranassimilation.     Stryker, grinning, broughtFarrell a frosted drink that tinkledinvitingly. An unusuallyfortunate ending to a Hymenopexperiment, he said. Thesepeople progressed normally becausethey've been let alone. Reorientingthem will be a simplematter; they'll be properly spoiledcolonists within another generation.     Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.     But I don't see why the Beesshould go to such trouble to deceivethese people. Why did theysit back and let them grow asthey pleased, Gib? It doesn'tmake sense!     But it does, for once, Gibsonsaid. The Bees set up thiscolony as a control unit to studythe species they were invading,and they had to give theirspecimens a normal—if obsolete—backgroundin order to determinetheir capabilities. The factthat their experiment didn't tellthem what they wanted to knowmay have had a direct bearingon their decision to pull out.     Farrell shook his head. It'sa reverse application, isn't it ofthe old saw about Terrans beingincapable of understanding analien culture?     Of course, said Gibson, surprised.It's obvious enough,surely—hard as they tried, theBees never understood useither.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   January1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.     Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?     Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics.           A sound foreign policy     , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began—      by common consent of the governments     . Thisis known as self-containment.     Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out.     Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where?     Outside the dome.     Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave.     And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave      now     .     Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor.     Then you      have     discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out?     The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group.     Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.     Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them.     Everyone spoke at the same moment.       A sound foreign policy     , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words.  <doc-sep>  Any problem posed by one group ofhuman beings can be resolved by anyother group. That's what the Handbooksaid. But did that include primitivehumans? Or the Bees? Or a ...     CONTROL GROUP     By ROGER DEE  <doc-sep></s>","The Ringwave technology allowed humans to explore the neighboring systems of planets, find new habitable territories, and colonize them. It also partially leads to the invasion of the Bees and allows humans to fight with them. The knowledge about the history of the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle, especially the fact that it was discovered in 2100, also helps the crew realize that the spaceship on planet Alphard Six is atomic-powered and thus prehistoric. It’s eleven hundred years old, also Terran, and was brought here from somewhere else. "
"<s>  ACID BATH     By VASELEOS GARSON         The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.      <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  The  cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach.     Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders.     Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid.     Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing.     With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man.     The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol.     Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes.     He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience.     To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp.     Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down.     But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive.     The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep.     There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up.     He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.     One said,     You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died.     No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.     Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway.     The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it.     His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived.     Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst.     It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt.     The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray.     They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered.     Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him.     Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry.     I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture.     But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning.     Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.     I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going.     Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room.     Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward.     Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it.     Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide.     Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded.     Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber.     The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done.     As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.     By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship.     Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway.     It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer.     Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later.     The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him.     You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body.     I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel?     Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry.     That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said.     It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched.     The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid.     On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock.     No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer.   <doc-sep></s>","Jon Karyl is bolting a new baffle plate on the stationary rocket engine and ignores what happens around other parts of the little asteroid. A peculiar spaceship lands a few hundred yards away from his plastic igloo, and a half-dozen steel-blue creatures slide out of the airlock. When he climbs up again and sees the creatures, Jon runs for the rocky slopes. Jon brings out his stubray pistol and turns up the oxygen dial for greater exertion as two of the creatures continue to chase him. He manages to elude them by going down a dim trail temporarily. Once Jon finds the stubby bush shaped like a Maltese cross, he keeps going until he reaches the hollowed-out space. He observes the steel-blue creatures from the televisor, noting how they head towards the station to try and destroy it. Although the station is not supposed to break because it is made out of stelrylite, the creatures pound holes into the station with round-headed metal clubs. He presses the atomic cannon’s firing buttons and finds that it is impossible to damage the ship. Suddenly, a Steel-Blue paralyzes him from the waist down and tells him to come with them. Once outside, the Steel-Blue explains to Jon that the most protective metal they use is the softest one in their world. He follows the Steel-Blue into the ship, where a more massive one tells Jon’s Steel-Blue to examine him and give him death. The Steel-Blue brings him to the examination room, where Jon is curious about this whole interaction. He thinks about warning the SP patrol and using his weapon, but his Steel-Blue tells him they are already aware of it. The other Steel-Blues begin reproducing the service station, and Jon’s Steel-Blue tells him that his torture will be dissolved in a liquid they have prepared. When he goes inside, he prepares to blast at the cylinder with his gun. However, the tentacles take it away from him and bring him a glass-like cup filled with liquid. Jon toasts to Earth and drinks the liquid, going to sleep shortly after. When he awakes again, the Steel-Blues are amazed that he is still alive. On the fifth day, Jon breaks out of his plastic bowl with his subray because he is hungry. The Steel-Blues try to torture him more with the poison, and Jon has now made it a fetish to stay alive. When Jon takes the drink from No. 1, it tells him that the SP ship will be destroyed. Jon tries to send a distress signal, and he watches as the SP ship begins to come abruptly. The Steel-Blues watch as he tries to escape, only to be greeted by the voice of a space guard. Captain Ron Small of SP-101 tells him later that the Steel-Blues fed him a liquid they feared. The Steel-Blues tried to fight back, but the SP ship just shot a water rocket and set it on atomic fire. Captain Small and Jon then toast to water. "
"<s>  There  , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing.     He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind.     At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station.     Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight.     He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine.     As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship.     The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly.     Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages.     They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance.     Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head.     Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters?     The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs.     He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down.     The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing.     Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation.     He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.     Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip.     Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily.     Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders.     Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons.     He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one.     The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack.     Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.     He pressed the red button again.     Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position.     Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly.     He turned his head.     A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box.     Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you?     I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue.     There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you?     A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box.     The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head.     Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said.     There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways.     He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends.     Steel-Blue chuckled.   <doc-sep>  There  was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled.     There were several more queer motionsinside his body.     Then another Steel-Blue voice said:     He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done.     Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be?     Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist.     Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock.     Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages.     He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station.     In that he would be just a sitting duck.     He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious.     And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace.     If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately.     The Steel-Blue said quietly:     It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns.     Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts?     The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile.     Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment.     They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem.     Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet.     When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother.     His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life.     What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked.     The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust.     We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly.     Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init.     Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo.     He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit.     With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air.     He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin.     The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes.     Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin.     Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed.     He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder.     A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid.     One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon.     He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet.     He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder.   <doc-sep>  The  cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach.     Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders.     Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid.     Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing.     With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man.     The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol.     Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes.     He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience.     To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp.     Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down.     But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive.     The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep.     There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up.     He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.     One said,     You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died.     No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.     Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway.     The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it.     His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived.     Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst.     It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt.     The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray.     They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered.     Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him.     Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry.     I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture.     But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning.     Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.     I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going.     Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room.     Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward.     Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it.     Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide.     Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded.     Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber.     The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done.     As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.     By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship.     Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway.     It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer.     Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later.     The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him.     You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body.     I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel?     Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry.     That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said.     It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched.     The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid.     On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock.     No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer.   <doc-sep></s>","The Steel-Blue creatures are described to be steel-blue in color. They have egg-shaped heads and walking appendages. The Steel-Blues are also around the height of Jon at six feet, and their appendages are many-jointed. These appendages also stretch and shrink independent of each other, but the cylindrical body and tentacles are kept on a level balance. Instead of eyes, the Steel-Blues have elliptical-shaped lenses that cover half of the head and converge around the sides of the head. Jon notes that they are robots without masters. When Jon follows the Steel-Blue later, he notes that it has a lens on the back of its head as well. The massive steel-blue creature that Jon meets has four more tentacles, including two short ones that grow out of its head. "
"<s>  ACID BATH     By VASELEOS GARSON         The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.      <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep>  The  cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach.     Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders.     Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid.     Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing.     With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man.     The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol.     Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes.     He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience.     To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp.     Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down.     But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive.     The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep.     There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up.     He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.     One said,     You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died.     No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.     Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway.     The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it.     His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived.     Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst.     It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt.     The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray.     They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered.     Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him.     Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry.     I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture.     But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning.     Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.     I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going.     Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room.     Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward.     Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it.     Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide.     Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded.     Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber.     The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done.     As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.     By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship.     Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway.     It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer.     Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later.     The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him.     You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body.     I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel?     Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry.     That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said.     It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched.     The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid.     On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock.     No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer.   <doc-sep></s>","The story is initially set on an asteroid, where a stationary rocket station is. Jon has a blue plastic igloo to live in. There is also a ravine where he runs to in an attempt to elude the Steel-Blues. There are bushes, water, and dense thicket that he must go through before getting to the hollowed-out space in the center. At the station, there is a lock for his key to go through. The lever then opens to a long tunnel, and there is a televisor that fixes on the area. The station is made out of stelrylite, but it becomes riddled with holes after the Steel-Blues attack. The station also has a row of studs and a revolving turret that fires atomic cannons. There is a yellow, blue, and red button to fire. The Blue Steels’ spaceship can change its part to a bubble-like metal. The spaceship of the invaders is pitch-black and is a maze-like corridor. At the end, there is a circular room with bright light streaming from a glass-like and bulging skylight. In the examination room, the Steel-Blues build a miniature reproduction of the space station with plastic walls. There is a small opening in the four foot cylinder that brings him a strange liquid. Although the Steel-Blues are always present, the tank they keep him in is fairly easy to break out of. "
"<s>  ACID BATH     By VASELEOS GARSON         The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developmentsin his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like theweird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.      <doc-sep>Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain.     If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid.     The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed      hautcuisine     and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet.     Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country:      Mensch ist was er isst.     It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this      Schweinerei     you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby.  <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself.     Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring.     It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated.     It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in.     You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do.     It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled.     It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed.     The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'.  <doc-sep></s>","Jon uses a stubray pistol that he keeps on him at all times. The space station itself is fairly equipped, with a thin turret that can fire atomic cannons. The ship that the Steel Blues arrive in is very advanced as well, and it is capable of recovering from the cannon. The Steel Blue’s build his habitat out of plastic and other material that they have in possession. When the Steel Blue’s begin Jon’s torture, they feed him a drink that he thinks is hemlock. Later, Jon also uses his little power-pack radio to send a distress signal to the SP ship. When the SP ship defeats the Steel Blues, they use a rocket tube to shoot water and then atomic fire. "
"<s>  The  cylinder moved so fast Jon felt hiseyes jump in his head. He brought thestubray gun up—but he was helpless. Thepistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,one of the tentacles had speared itfrom his hand and was holding it out ofhis reach.     Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder'shand. But he was too slow. Two tentaclesgripped the kicking leg. Another struck himin the chest, knocking him to the pallet. Thesame tentacle, assisted by a new one,pinioned his shoulders.     Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinderlifted a glass-like cap from the tumblerof liquid.     Lying there helplessly, Jon was rememberingan old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.Something about a fellow named Socrateswho was given a cup of hemlock to drink.It was the finis for Socrates. But the oldhero had been nonchalant and calm aboutthe whole thing.     With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curiousunto death, relaxed and said, All right,bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'lltake it like a man.     The cylinder apparently understood him,for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholsteredhis stubray pistol.     Jon brought the glass of liquid under hisnose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.It brought tears to his eyes.     He looked at the cylinder, then at theSteel-Blues crowding around the plasticigloo. He waved the glass at the audience.     To Earth, ever triumphant, he toasted.Then he drained the glass at a gulp.     Its taste was bitter, and he felt hotprickles jab at his scalp. It was like eatingvery hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.He coughed as the stuff went down.     But he was still alive, he thought inamazement. He'd drunk the hemlock andwas still alive.     The reaction set in quickly. He hadn'tknown until then how tense he'd been. Nowwith the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. Helaid down on the pallet and went to sleep.     There was one lone Steel-Blue watchinghim when he rubbed the sleep out of hiseyes and sat up.     He vanished almost instantly. He, or anotherlike him, returned immediately accompaniedby a half-dozen others, includingthe multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.     One said,     You are alive. The thought registeredamazement. When you lost consciousness,we thought you had—there was a hesitation—asyou say, died.     No, Jon Karyl said. I didn't die. Iwas just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep.The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.     Good it is that you live. The torturewill continue, spoke No. 1 before lopingaway.     The cylinder business began again. Thistime, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, tryingto figure out what it was. It had afamiliar, tantalizing taste but he couldn'tquite put a taste-finger on it.     His belly said he was hungry. He glancedat his chronometer. Only 20 days left beforethe SP ship arrived.     Would this torture—he chuckled—lastuntil then? But he was growing more andmore conscious that his belly was screamingfor hunger. The liquid had taken the edgeoff his thirst.     It was on the fifth day of his torture thatJon Karyl decided that he was going to getsomething to eat or perish in the attempt.     The cylinder sat passively in its niche inthe circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watchingas Jon put on his helmet and unsheathedhis stubray.     They merely watched as he pressed thestubray's firing stud. Invisible rays lickedout of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.The plastic splintered.     Jon was out of his goldfish bowl andstriding toward his own igloo adjacent tothe service station when a Steel-Blueaccosted him.     Out of my way, grunted Jon, wavingthe stubray. I'm hungry.     I'm the first Steel-Blue you met, saidthe creature who barred his way. Go backto your torture.     But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one ofyour tentacles and eat it without seasoning.     Eat? The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.     I want to refuel. I've got to have foodto keep my engine going.     Steel-Blue chuckled. So the hemlock, asyou call it, is beginning to affect you atlast? Back to the torture room.     Like R-dust, Jon growled. He pressedthe firing stud on the stubray gun. One ofSteel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell tothe rocky sward.     Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd usedonce before. A tentacle danced over it.     Abruptly Jon found himself standing ona pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut aswath around him 15 feet deep and five feetwide.     Back to the room, Steel-Blue commanded.     Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,shrugged non-committally and leaped thetrench. He walked slowly back and reenteredthe torture chamber.     The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damagehe'd done.     As he watched them, Jon was still curious,but he was getting mad underneath atthe cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.     By the shimmering clouds of Earth, byher green fields, and dark forests, he'dstay alive to warn the SP ship.     Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And sendthe story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acidto it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships couldequip themselves with spray guns and squirtcitric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fadeaway.     It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. Thefruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—itdoesn't sound possible. That couldn't bethe answer.     Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyldiscovered a week later.     The Steel-Blue who had captured him inthe power room of the service station camein to examine him.     You're still holding out, I see, he observedafter poking Jon in every sensitivepart of his body.     I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increasethe power of the—ah—hemlock. How doyou feel?     Between the rich oxygen and the dizzinessof hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But heanswered honestly enough: My guts feel asif they're chewing each other up. My bonesache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'mso hungry.     That is the hemlock, Steel-Blue said.     It was when he quaffed the new andstronger draught that Jon knew that hishope that it was citric acid was squelched.     The acid taste was weaker which meantthat the citric acid was the diluting liquid.It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneaththe tang of the citric acid that was the corrosiveacid.     On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weakhe didn't feel much like moving around. Helet the cylinder feed him the hemlock.     No. 1 came again to see him, and wentaway chuckling, Decrease the dilution.This Earthman at last is beginning tosuffer.   <doc-sep>  There  , just ahead of him, was the lockleading into the service station. Slippinga key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,he jabbed it into the center of the lock,opening the lever housing.     He pulled strongly on the lever. With ahiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closingsoftly behind.     At the end of the long tunnel he steppedto the televisor which was fixed on the areasurrounding the station.     Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.But he saw their ship. It squattedlike a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shuttight.     He tuned the televisor to its widest rangeand finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.He was looking into the stationary rocketengine.     As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Bluecame crawling out of the ship.     The two Steel-Blues moved toward thecenter of the televisor range. They're comingtoward the station, Karyl thought grimly.     Karyl examined the two creatures. Theywere of the steel-blue color from the crownof their egg-shaped heads to the tips oftheir walking appendages.     They were about the height of Karyl—sixfeet. But where he tapered from broadshoulders to flat hips, they were straight upand down. They had no legs, just appendages,many-jointed that stretched andshrank independent of the other, but keepingthe cylindrical body with its four pairsof tentacles on a level balance.     Where their eyes would have been wasan elliptical-shaped lens, covering half theegg-head, with its converging ends curvingaround the sides of the head.     Robots! Jon gauged immediately. Butwhere were their masters?     The Steel-Blues moved out of the rangeof the televisor. A minute later Jon hearda pounding from the station upstairs.     He chuckled. They were like the wolf ofpre-atomic days who huffed and puffed toblow the house down.     The outer shell of the station was formedfrom stelrylite, the toughest metal in thesolar system. With the self-sealing lock ofthe same resistant material, a mere poundingwas nothing.     Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.He went up the steel ladder leading to thestation's power plant and the televisor thatcould look into every room within thestation.     He heaved a slight sigh when he reachedthe power room, for right at his hand wereweapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.     Jon adjusted one televisor to take in thelock to the station. His teeth suddenlyclamped down on his lower lip.     Those Steel-Blues were pounding holesinto the stelrylite with round-headed metalclubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn'tbreak up that easily.     Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining upthe revolving turret which capped the stationso that its thin fin pointed at thesquat ship of the invaders.     Then he went to the atomic cannon'sfiring buttons.     He pressed first the yellow, then the bluebutton. Finally the red one.     The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split inhalf as the turret opened and the coiled noseof the cannon protruded. There was asoundless flash. Then a sharp crack.     Jon was dumbfounded when he saw thebolt ricochet off the ship. This was no shipof the solar system. There was nothing thatcould withstand even the slight jolt of powergiven by the station cannon on any of theSun's worlds. But what was this? A piece ofthe ship had changed. A bubble of metal,like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped offthe vessel and struck the rocket of theasteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.     He pressed the red button again.     Then abruptly he was on the floor of thepower room, his legs strangely cut out fromunder him. He tried to move them. They layflaccid. His arms seemed all right and triedto lever himself to an upright position.     Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzedfrom the waist down. But it couldn'thappen that suddenly.     He turned his head.     A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forkedtentacle held a square black box.     Jon could read nothing in that metallicface. He said, voice muffled by the confinesof the plastic helmet, Who are you?     I am—there was a rising inflection inthe answer—a Steel-Blue.     There were no lips on the Steel-Blue'sface to move. That is what I have namedyou, Jon Karyl said. But what are you?     A robot, came the immediate answer.Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Bluewas telepathic. Yes, the Steel-Blue answered.We talk in the language of themind. Come! he said peremptorily, motioningwith the square black box.     The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followedthe Steel-Blue, aware that the lenshe'd seen on the creature's face had acounterpart on the back of the egg-head.     Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.That's quite an innovation. Thank you,Steel-Blue said.     There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl'smind. Psychiatrists had proved that when hehad applied for this high-paying but man-killingjob as a Lone Watcher on the SolarSystem's starways.     He had little fear now, only curiosity.These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.They could have snuffed out my life verysimply. Perhaps they and Solarians can befriends.     Steel-Blue chuckled.   <doc-sep>  There  was a hiss. Simultaneously, as thetiny microphone on the outside of hissuit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill gothrough his body. Then it seemed as if ahalf dozen hands were inside him, examininghis internal organs. His stomach contracted.He felt a squeeze on his heart. Hislungs tickled.     There were several more queer motionsinside his body.     Then another Steel-Blue voice said:     He is a soft-metal creature, made up ofmetals that melt at a very low temperature.He also contains a liquid whose makeup Icannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring himback when the torture is done.     Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. Whatkind of torture could this be?     Would it last 21 days? He glanced at thechronometer on his wrist.     Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alienship and halted expectantly just outside theship's lock.     Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of thestubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot myway out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But hetoted up the disadvantages.     He either would have to find a hidingplace on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blueswanted him bad enough they could tear thewhole place to pieces, or somehow getaboard the little life ship hidden in theservice station.     In that he would be just a sitting duck.     He shrugged off the slight temptation touse the pistol. He was still curious.     And he was interested in staying alive aslong as possible. There was a remote chancehe might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,he glanced toward his belt to see the littlepower pack which, if under ideal conditions,could finger out fifty thousand miles intospace.     If he could somehow stay alive the 21days he might be able to warn the patrol.He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, forhis life would be snuffed out immediately.     The Steel-Blue said quietly:     It might be ironical to let you warnthat SP ship you keep thinking about. Butwe know your weapon now. Already ourship is equipped with a force field designedespecially to deflect your atomic guns.     Jon Karyl covered up his thoughtsquickly. They can delve deeper than thesurface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping aleash on my thoughts?     The Steel-Blue chuckled. You get—absent-minded,is it?—every once in awhile.     Just then four other Steel-Blues appearedlugging great sheets of plastic and variousother equipment.     They dumped their loads and began unbundlingthem.     Working swiftly, they built a plasticigloo, smaller than the living room in thelarger service station igloo. They ranged instrumentsinside—one of them Jon Karylrecognized as an air pump from within thestation—and they laid out a pallet.     When they were done Jon saw a miniaturereproduction of the service station, lackingonly the cannon cap and fin, and with clearplastic walls instead of the opaqueness of theother.     His Steel-Blue said: We have reproducedthe atmosphere of your station so that yoube watched while you undergo the tortureunder the normal conditions of your life.     What is this torture? Jon Karyl asked.     The answer was almost caressing: It isa liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causesjoints to harden if even so much as a dropremains on it long. It eats away the metal,leaving a scaly residue which crumbleseventually into dust.     We will dilute it with a harmless liquidfor you since No. 1 does not wish you to dieinstantly.     Enter your—the Steel-Blue hesitated—mausoleum.You die in your own atmosphere.However, we took the liberty of purifyingit. There were dangerous elements init.     Jon walked into the little igloo. TheSteel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dialsand switches on the outside. Jon's space suitdeflated. Pressure was building up in theigloo.     He took a sample of the air, found thatit was good, although quite rich in oxygencompared with what he'd been using in theservice station and in his suit.     With a sigh of relief he took off his helmetand gulped huge draughts of the air.     He sat down on the pallet and waitedfor the torture to begin.     The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,staring at him through elliptical eyes.     Apparently, they too, were waiting for thetorture to begin.     Jon thought the excess of oxygen wasmaking him light-headed.     He stared at a cylinder which was beginningto sprout tentacles from the circle.He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Anopening, like the adjustable eye-piece of aspacescope, was appearing in the center ofthe cylinder.     A square, glass-like tumbler sat in theopening disclosed in the four-foot cylinderthat had sprouted tentacles. It contained ayellowish liquid.     One of the tentacles reached into theopening and clasped the glass. The openingclosed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotorappendages, moved toward Jon.     He didn't like the looks of the liquid inthe tumbler. It looked like an acid of somesort. He raised to his feet.     He unsheathed the stubray gun and preparedto blast the cylinder.   <doc-sep></s>","Jon is initially curious about the Steel-Blue that he first meets in the space station. When he notices that it has eyes on the back of its head, it even says “Thank you” to him. It also tells him that its species can read his mind. The Steel-Blue also explains to him that the metal they use at the station is considered to be the softest one from where the Space Blue’s come from. It is not openly hostile towards him, but it does speak almost contemptuously when they go to the examination room. Although his Steel Blue initially did not show much hostility, it does warn him to not even think about contacting the SP ship or using his weapon. However, it does tease him and say that he gets absent-minded at times. When it tells him about the torture, his Blue Steel speaks in an almost-caressing way as well. When Jon breaks out of his tank to find food, his Steel-Blue tells him that it is the first of the creatures that he has met. It commands him to go back to the tank. Although it seems friendly at first, Jon and the Steel-Blue do not have any sort of positive relationship. The Steel-Blue wishes to see him suffer, while Jon wants to survive and get out of the torture room. "
"<s>    A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?    <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  They all  knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him.     Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely?     Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle?     The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head.     Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her.     The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed.     My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian.     Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle.     My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff.     Never mind.     He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable.     I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet.     Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh?     Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble.     When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus.     Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling.     Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag.     Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing?     Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay.     The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane.     I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler—      huk!     —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey?     Yeah. Your son. Come on.     Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son.     Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls.     Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again.     The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose.     Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills.           Huk!     —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo-      hoo     !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground.     Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently.     Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess.     Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay?     Hogey nodded forlornly.     Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away.     Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers.     With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch.     Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried.     The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land.     The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains.     A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun.     He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes.      With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily.     Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry.     What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload.     Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity.     The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto.     Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow?     Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here?     It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie?     The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance?     Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker.     Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it.     He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around.     They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha?     The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully.     Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead.     He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction.     It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest.     Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen.     When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again.     He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent.     Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap.     He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child.     He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide.     What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money?     Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame:      One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob.       And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ...           Why?      he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag.     It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse.     They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold.     A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ...     He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun.     He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered.           Shhh!      he hissed, and movedon.     The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped.     Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house.     One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting.     Anybody out there? the mancalled again.     Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im.     The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog.     Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here!     The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went      Rrrooff!      Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again.     Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered.     The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope.     Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh?     The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son.     What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son?     After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went      squelch     andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness.     He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud.     The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better.     The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came.     It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs.     For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up.     He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully.     He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable.     He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept.     He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love.     Get away! he croaked savagely.     The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally.     Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim.     Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it.      Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that      all     ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless.     He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten.     It was a baby crying.     It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased.     Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it.     Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me!     He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped.     The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze.       Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ...       But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy.     A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all.     He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ...     But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to      little     Hogey.     He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s>","This story follows the protagonist, Hogey Parker’s, journey in heading back home after a long stint in space. His identity leans heavily on being a spacer - or a tumbler - with distinguishing sunburned marks and glare-blinded eyes. Parker is accompanied by a bottle of gin, and with it, stumbles onto a bus. In his drunken ramblings and stumblings - attributed by himself to him being a spaceman - Hogey creates a ruckus on the bus and disturbs its passengers. Fellow passengers give him allowances as he’s a spaceman and help him out. Throughout his journey, he is helped by various characters who further progress his journey back home. After being dropped off, the bus driver helps him across the road, where he is later then picked up by a farmer who drops Hogey off even closer to his farmhouse. In between, Hogey constantly looks up at the Big Bottomless space and thinks about his time in space with particular feelings of resentment and anger - one towards the sun for blinding him and another towards the rookie that replaced him. After finally making it close to his farmhouse, he sneaks through the grass past the fence and encounters the dog, who he quickly shushes when one of his wife’s brothers comes out to investigate the noise. Staring at his wife and son through the house, he stumbles into wet concrete and quickly becomes stuck in the sand as it dries. Despite his best efforts he is unable to claw himself out. At the end of the story, his cries at being stuck in the concrete echo at the same time the cries of his son as the Hauptmann men find him, stuck. "
"<s>  They all  knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him.     Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely?     Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle?     The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head.     Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her.     The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed.     My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian.     Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle.     My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff.     Never mind.     He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable.     I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet.     Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh?     Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble.     When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus.     Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling.     Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag.     Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing?     Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay.     The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane.     I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler—      huk!     —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey?     Yeah. Your son. Come on.     Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son.     Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls.     Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again.     The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose.     Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills.           Huk!     —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo-      hoo     !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground.     Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently.     Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess.     Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay?     Hogey nodded forlornly.     Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away.     Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers.     With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch.     Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried.     The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land.     The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains.     A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun.     He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes.      With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily.     Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry.     What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload.     Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity.     The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto.     Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow?     Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here?     It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie?     The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance?     Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker.     Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it.     He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around.     They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha?     The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully.     Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead.     He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction.     It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest.     Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen.     When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again.     He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent.     Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap.     He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child.     He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide.     What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money?     Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame:      One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob.       And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ...           Why?      he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag.     It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse.     They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold.     A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ...     He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun.     He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered.           Shhh!      he hissed, and movedon.     The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped.     Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house.     One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting.     Anybody out there? the mancalled again.     Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im.     The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog.     Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here!     The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went      Rrrooff!      Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again.     Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered.     The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope.     Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh?     The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son.     What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son?     After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went      squelch     andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness.     He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud.     The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better.     The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came.     It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs.     For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up.     He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully.     He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable.     He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept.     He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love.     Get away! he croaked savagely.     The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally.     Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim.     Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it.      Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that      all     ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless.     He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten.     It was a baby crying.     It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased.     Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it.     Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me!     He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped.     The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze.       Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ...       But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy.     A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all.     He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ...     But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to      little     Hogey.     He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>    A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?    <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.     Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.     Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.     What are you trying to do? he demanded.     I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong!     No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here!     Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.     She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.     Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped.     He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job....     But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface.     For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.     Except it wouldn't be      his     solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends.     He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.     Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed.     But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.  <doc-sep></s>","There is an ironic significance in Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete. Throughout the story, Hogey’s identity is tied to being a tumbler - a spaceman. Not only does he physically look like a spacer with his sun-burned marks from his goggles, he has also been blinded by the sun’s glare. It is only due to these characteristics that other people give him allowances while Hogey is in a drunken stupor. Hogey constantly speaks to separate himself from everyone else - even his wife - by identifying as a tumbler and them as hoofers. He insists that he was born as a tumbler and belongs in space, and hence blames his drunken inability to walk as due to a difficulty in adjusting to the gravity on Earth. He insists that he has to become a hoofer, but refuses to, and at the end of the story even denounces his wife and child. It is ironic then, that by Hogey’s feet being stuck in the concrete, he has reluctantly become a hoofer as his feet are literally encased in the Earth. "
"<s>  They all  knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him.     Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely?     Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle?     The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head.     Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her.     The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed.     My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian.     Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle.     My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff.     Never mind.     He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable.     I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet.     Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh?     Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble.     When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus.     Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling.     Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag.     Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing?     Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay.     The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane.     I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler—      huk!     —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey?     Yeah. Your son. Come on.     Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son.     Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls.     Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again.     The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose.     Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills.           Huk!     —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo-      hoo     !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground.     Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently.     Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess.     Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay?     Hogey nodded forlornly.     Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away.     Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers.     With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch.     Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried.     The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land.     The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains.     A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun.     He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes.      With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily.     Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry.     What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload.     Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity.     The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto.     Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow?     Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here?     It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie?     The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance?     Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker.     Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it.     He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around.     They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha?     The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully.     Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead.     He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction.     It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest.     Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen.     When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again.     He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent.     Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap.     He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child.     He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide.     What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money?     Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame:      One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob.       And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ...           Why?      he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag.     It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse.     They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold.     A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ...     He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun.     He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered.           Shhh!      he hissed, and movedon.     The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped.     Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house.     One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting.     Anybody out there? the mancalled again.     Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im.     The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog.     Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here!     The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went      Rrrooff!      Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again.     Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered.     The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope.     Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh?     The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son.     What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son?     After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went      squelch     andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness.     He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud.     The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better.     The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came.     It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs.     For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up.     He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully.     He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable.     He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept.     He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love.     Get away! he croaked savagely.     The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally.     Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim.     Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it.      Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that      all     ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless.     He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten.     It was a baby crying.     It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased.     Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it.     Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me!     He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped.     The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze.       Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ...       But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy.     A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all.     He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ...     But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to      little     Hogey.     He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>    A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?    <doc-sep>Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.     It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.     Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here.     Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day.     He returned quickly to the room.     His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.     Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again.     But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies—     Hatcher!     The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded.     Wait....     Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look!     At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow.     Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex?     Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited.     Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in.     And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now.     Killing him, Hatcher?     Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once.      III     Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration.     The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit.     Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself.     God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light.     At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two.     He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening.     For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss.     McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange.     And yet, surely, it was warmer in here.     He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed.     A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from?     He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know—     McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is      Jodrell Bank     calling. Answer, please!     I      am     answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long?     Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray....     It kept on, and on.     McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they      had     heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long....     Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three?     Did that mean—did it      possibly     mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took      hours     to get a message to the ship and back?     And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he?  <doc-sep></s>","Hogey gets home through the kindness of the hoofers, who all know him to be a spacer due to the white marks on his face. As such, when Hogey becomes rowdy and drunk on the bus, they gracefully pick him up and seat him down at the back of the bus. After getting off the bus, Hogey has trouble crossing the highway with all the passing cars and the bus driver compassionately helps him across the road. The driver even inquired about someone picking him up, before warning Hogey not to traipse through the hills alone and instead, wait for someone to come along. As Hogey staggers down the pavement, he stumbles in front of a farmer’s truck. Since the farmer recognizes Hogey’s residence and identity, he helps Hogey get closer to his destination and drops him off right on the road in front of Hauptman’s place. "
"<s>  They all  knew he was a spacerbecause of the white goggle markson his sun-scorched face, and sothey tolerated him and helped him.They even made allowances for himwhen he staggered and fell in theaisle of the bus while pursuing theharassed little housewife from seatto seat and cajoling her to sit andtalk with him.     Having fallen, he decided tosleep in the aisle. Two men helpedhim to the back of the bus, dumpedhim on the rear seat, and tucked hisgin bottle safely out of sight. Afterall, he had not seen Earth for ninemonths, and judging by the crustedmatter about his eyelids, he couldn'thave seen it too well now, even ifhe had been sober. Glare-blindness,gravity-legs, and agoraphobia wereexcuses for a lot of things, when aman was just back from Big Bottomless.And who could blame aman for acting strangely?     Minutes later, he was back up theaisle and swaying giddily over thelittle housewife. How! he said.Me Chief Broken Wing. Youwanta Indian wrestle?     The girl, who sat nervously staringat him, smiled wanly, andshook her head.     Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha? heburbled affectionately, crashing intothe seat beside her.     The two men slid out of theirseats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.Come on, Broken Wing, let'sgo back to bed.     My name's Hogey, he said.Big Hogey Parker. I was just kiddingabout being a Indian.     Yeah. Come on, let's go have adrink. They got him on his feet,and led him stumbling back downthe aisle.     My ma was half Cherokee, see?That's how come I said it. Youwanta hear a war whoop? Realstuff.     Never mind.     He cupped his hands to hismouth and favored them with ablood-curdling proof of his ancestry,while the female passengersstirred restlessly and hunched intheir seats. The driver stopped thebus and went back to warn himagainst any further display. Thedriver flashed a deputy's badge andthreatened to turn him over to aconstable.     I gotta get home, Big Hogeytold him. I got me a son now,that's why. You know? A littlebaby pigeon of a son. Haven't seenhim yet.     Will you just sit still and bequiet then, eh?     Big Hogey nodded emphatically.Shorry, officer, I didn't mean tomake any trouble.     When the bus started again, hefell on his side and lay still. Hemade retching sounds for a time,then rested, snoring softly. The busdriver woke him again at Caine'sjunction, retrieved his gin bottlefrom behind the seat, and helpedhim down the aisle and out of thebus.     Big Hogey stumbled about for amoment, then sat down hard in thegravel at the shoulder of the road.The driver paused with one foot onthe step, looking around. There wasnot even a store at the road junction,but only a freight buildingnext to the railroad track, a coupleof farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,and, just across the way, a desertedfilling station with a saggingroof. The land was Great Plainscountry, treeless, barren, and rolling.     Big Hogey got up and staggeredaround in front of the bus, clutchingat it for support, losing hisduffle bag.     Hey, watch the traffic! Thedriver warned. With a surge of unwelcomecompassion he trottedaround after his troublesome passenger,taking his arm as he saggedagain. You crossing?     Yah, Hogey muttered. Lemmealone, I'm okay.     The driver started across thehighway with him. The traffic wassparse, but fast and dangerous inthe central ninety-mile lane.     I'm okay, Hogey kept protesting.I'm a tumbler, ya know?Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.I'm not used to gravity, ya know? Iused to be a tumbler—      huk!     —onlynow I gotta be a hoofer. 'Countof li'l Hogey. You know about li'lHogey?     Yeah. Your son. Come on.     Say, you gotta son? I bet yougotta son.     Two kids, said the driver,catching Hogey's bag as it slippedfrom his shoulder. Both girls.     Say, you oughta be home withthem kids. Man oughta stick withhis family. You oughta get anotherjob. Hogey eyed him owlishly,waggled a moralistic finger, skiddedon the gravel as they steppedonto the opposite shoulder, andsprawled again.     The driver blew a weary breath,looked down at him, and shook hishead. Maybe it'd be kinder to finda constable after all. This guy couldget himself killed, wanderingaround loose.     Somebody supposed to meetyou? he asked, squinting aroundat the dusty hills.           Huk!     —who, me? Hogey giggled,belched, and shook his head.Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.S'prise. I'm supposed to be here aweek ago. He looked up at thedriver with a pained expression.Week late, ya know? Marie'sgonna be sore—woo-      hoo     !—is shegonna be sore! He waggled hishead severely at the ground.     Which way are you going? thedriver grunted impatiently.     Hogey pointed down the side-roadthat led back into the hills.Marie's pop's place. You knowwhere? 'Bout three miles fromhere. Gotta walk, I guess.     Don't, the driver warned.You sit there by the culvert tillyou get a ride. Okay?     Hogey nodded forlornly.     Now stay out of the road, thedriver warned, then hurried backacross the highway. Moments later,the atomic battery-driven motorsdroned mournfully, and the buspulled away.     Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbingthe back of his neck. Nicepeople, he said. Nice buncha people.All hoofers.     With a grunt and a lurch, he gotto his feet, but his legs wouldn'twork right. With his tumbler's reflexes,he fought to right himselfwith frantic arm motions, but gravityclaimed him, and he went stumblinginto the ditch.     Damn legs, damn crazy legs!he cried.     The bottom of the ditch was wet,and he crawled up the embankmentwith mud-soaked knees, and sat onthe shoulder again. The gin bottlewas still intact. He had himself along fiery drink, and it warmed himdeep down. He blinked around atthe gaunt and treeless land.     The sun was almost down, forge-redon a dusty horizon. The blood-streakedsky faded into sulphurousyellow toward the zenith, and thevery air that hung over the landseemed full of yellow smoke, theomnipresent dust of the plains.     A farm truck turned onto theside-road and moaned away, itsdriver hardly glancing at the darkyoung man who sat swaying on hisduffle bag near the culvert. Hogeyscarcely noticed the vehicle. He justkept staring at the crazy sun.     He shook his head. It wasn't reallythe sun. The sun, the real sun,was a hateful eye-sizzling horror inthe dead black pit. It painted everythingwith pure white pain, and yousaw things by the reflected pain-light.The fat red sun was strictly aphoney, and it didn't fool him any.He hated it for what he knew it wasbehind the gory mask, and for whatit had done to his eyes.      With a grunt, he got to his feet,managed to shoulder the duffle bag,and started off down the middle ofthe farm road, lurching from sideto side, and keeping his eyes on therolling distances. Another car turnedonto the side-road, honking angrily.     Hogey tried to turn around tolook at it, but he forgot to shift hisfooting. He staggered and wentdown on the pavement. The car'stires screeched on the hot asphalt.Hogey lay there for a moment,groaning. That one had hurt hiship. A car door slammed and a bigman with a florid face got out andstalked toward him, looking angry.     What the hell's the matter withyou, fella? he drawled. Yousoused? Man, you've really got aload.     Hogey got up doggedly, shakinghis head to clear it. Space legs, heprevaricated. Got space legs. Can'tstand the gravity.     The burly farmer retrieved hisgin bottle for him, still miraculouslyunbroken. Here's your gravity,he grunted. Listen, fella, you betterget home pronto.     Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,I'm just space burned. Youknow?     Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?Do you live around here?     It was obvious that the big manhad taken him for a hobo or atramp. Hogey pulled himself together.Goin' to the Hauptman'splace. Marie. You know Marie?     The farmer's eyebrows went up.Marie Hauptman? Sure I knowher. Only she's Marie Parker now.Has been, nigh on six years. Say—He paused, then gaped. You ain'ther husband by any chance?     Hogey, that's me. Big HogeyParker.     Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.I'm going right past John Hauptman'splace. Boy, you're in noshape to walk it.     He grinned wryly, waggled hishead, and helped Hogey and hisbag into the back seat. A womanwith a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidlybeside the farmer in the front,and she neither greeted the passengernor looked around.     They don't make cars like thisanymore, the farmer called overthe growl of the ancient gasolineengine and the grind of gears.You can have them new atomicswith their loads of hot isotopesunder the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,Martha?     The woman with the sun-bakedneck quivered her head slightly.A car like this was good enoughfor Pa, an' I reckon it's goodenough for us, she drawled mournfully.     Five minutes later the car drewin to the side of the road. Reckonyou can walk it from here, thefarmer said. That's Hauptman'sroad just up ahead.     He helped Hogey out of the carand drove away without lookingback to see if Hogey stayed on hisfeet. The woman with the sun-bakedneck was suddenly talkinggarrulously in his direction.     It was twilight. The sun had set,and the yellow sky was turninggray. Hogey was too tired to go on,and his legs would no longer holdhim. He blinked around at the land,got his eyes focused, and foundwhat looked like Hauptman's placeon a distant hillside. It was a bigframe house surrounded by a wheatfield,and a few scrawny trees. Havinglocated it, he stretched out inthe tall grass beyond the ditch totake a little rest.     Somewhere dogs were barking,and a cricket sang creaking monotonyin the grass. Once there was thedistant thunder of a rocket blastfrom the launching station six milesto the west, but it faded quickly. AnA-motored convertible whined paston the road, but Hogey went unseen.     When he awoke, it was night,and he was shivering. His stomachwas screeching, and his nerves dancingwith high voltages. He sat upand groped for his watch, then rememberedhe had pawned it afterthe poker game. Remembering thegame and the results of the gamemade him wince and bite his lipand grope for the bottle again.     He sat breathing heavily for amoment after the stiff drink. Equatingtime to position had becomesecond nature with him, but he hadto think for a moment because hisdefective vision prevented him fromseeing the Earth-crescent.     Vega was almost straight abovehim in the late August sky, so heknew it wasn't much after sundown—probablyabout eight o'clock. Hebraced himself with another swallowof gin, picked himself up andgot back to the road, feeling a littlesobered after the nap.     He limped on up the pavementand turned left at the narrow drivethat led between barbed-wire fencestoward the Hauptman farmhouse,five hundred yards or so from thefarm road. The fields on his leftbelonged to Marie's father, heknew. He was getting close—closeto home and woman and child.     He dropped the bag suddenlyand leaned against a fence post,rolling his head on his forearmsand choking in spasms of air. Hewas shaking all over, and his bellywrithed. He wanted to turn andrun. He wanted to crawl out in thegrass and hide.     What were they going to say?And Marie, Marie most of all.How was he going to tell her aboutthe money?     Six hitches in space, and everytime the promise had been thesame:      One more tour, baby, andwe'll have enough dough, and thenI'll quit for good. One more time,and we'll have our stake—enoughto open a little business, or buy ahouse with a mortgage and get ajob.       And she had waited, but themoney had never been quite enoughuntil this time. This time the tourhad lasted nine months, and he hadsigned on for every run from stationto moon-base to pick up thebonuses. And this time he'd madeit. Two weeks ago, there had beenforty-eight hundred in the bank.And now ...           Why?      he groaned, striking hisforehead against his forearms. Hisarm slipped, and his head hit thetop of the fencepost, and the painblinded him for a moment. He staggeredback into the road with alow roar, wiped blood from hisforehead, and savagely kicked hisbag.     It rolled a couple of yards up theroad. He leaped after it and kickedit again. When he had finishedwith it, he stood panting and angry,but feeling better. He shoulderedthe bag and hiked on toward thefarmhouse.     They're hoofers, that's all—justan Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. Aborn tumbler. Know what thatmeans? It means—God, what doesit mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,where Earth's like a fatmoon with fuzzy mold growing onit. Mold, that's all you are, justmold.     A dog barked, and he wonderedif he had been muttering aloud. Hecame to a fence-gap and paused inthe darkness. The road woundaround and came up the hill infront of the house. Maybe they weresitting on the porch. Maybe they'dalready heard him coming. Maybe ...     He was trembling again. Hefished the fifth of gin out of hiscoat pocket and sloshed it. Still overhalf a pint. He decided to kill it. Itwouldn't do to go home with abottle sticking out of his pocket.He stood there in the night wind,sipping at it, and watching the reddishmoon come up in the east. Themoon looked as phoney as thesetting sun.     He straightened in sudden determination.It had to be sometime.Get it over with, get it over withnow. He opened the fence-gap, slippedthrough, and closed it firmlybehind him. He retrieved his bag,and waded quietly through the tallgrass until he reached the hedgewhich divided an area of sicklypeach trees from the field. He gotover the hedge somehow, and startedthrough the trees toward thehouse. He stumbled over some oldboards, and they clattered.           Shhh!      he hissed, and movedon.     The dogs were barking angrily,and he heard a screen door slam.He stopped.     Ho there! a male voice calledexperimentally from the house.     One of Marie's brothers. Hogeystood frozen in the shadow of apeach tree, waiting.     Anybody out there? the mancalled again.     Hogey waited, then heard theman muttering, Sic 'im, boy, sic'im.     The hound's bark became eager.The animal came chasing down theslope, and stopped ten feet away tocrouch and bark frantically at theshadow in the gloom. He knew thedog.     Hooky! he whispered. Hookyboy—here!     The dog stopped barking, sniffed,trotted closer, and went      Rrrooff!      Then he started sniffingsuspiciously again.     Easy, Hooky, here boy! hewhispered.     The dog came forward silently,sniffed his hand, and whined inrecognition. Then he trotted aroundHogey, panting doggy affection anddancing an invitation to romp. Theman whistled from the porch. Thedog froze, then trotted quickly backup the slope.     Nothing, eh, Hooky? theman on the porch said. Chasin'armadillos again, eh?     The screen door slammed again,and the porch light went out.Hogey stood there staring, unableto think. Somewhere beyond thewindow lights were—his woman,his son.     What the hell was a tumbler doingwith a woman and a son?     After perhaps a minute, he steppedforward again. He tripped overa shovel, and his foot plunged intosomething that went      squelch     andswallowed the foot past the ankle.He fell forward into a heap ofsand, and his foot went deeper intothe sloppy wetness.     He lay there with his stingingforehead on his arms, cursing softlyand crying. Finally he rolledover, pulled his foot out of themess, and took off his shoes. Theywere full of mud—sticky sandymud.     The dark world was reelingabout him, and the wind was draggingat his breath. He fell backagainst the sand pile and let hisfeet sink in the mud hole and wriggledhis toes. He was laughingsoundlessly, and his face was wetin the wind. He couldn't think. Hecouldn't remember where he wasand why, and he stopped caring,and after a while he felt better.     The stars were swimming overhim, dancing crazily, and the mudcooled his feet, and the sand wassoft behind him. He saw a rocketgo up on a tail of flame from thestation, and waited for the sound ofits blast, but he was already asleepwhen it came.     It was far past midnight when hebecame conscious of the dog lickingwetly at his ear and cheek. Hepushed the animal away with a lowcurse and mopped at the side of hisface. He stirred, and groaned. Hisfeet were burning up! He tried topull them toward him, but theywouldn't budge. There was somethingwrong with his legs.     For an instant he stared wildlyaround in the night. Then he rememberedwhere he was, closed hiseyes and shuddered. When heopened them again, the moon hademerged from behind a cloud, andhe could see clearly the cruel trapinto which he had accidentallystumbled. A pile of old boards, acareful stack of new lumber, apick and shovel, a sand-pile, heapsof fresh-turned earth, and a concretemixer—well, it added up.     He gripped his ankles and pulled,but his feet wouldn't budge. Insudden terror, he tried to stand up,but his ankles were clutched by theconcrete too, and he fell back inthe sand with a low moan. He laystill for several minutes, consideringcarefully.     He pulled at his left foot. It waslocked in a vise. He tugged evenmore desperately at his right foot.It was equally immovable.     He sat up with a whimper andclawed at the rough concrete untilhis nails tore and his fingertipsbled. The surface still felt damp,but it had hardened while he slept.     He sat there stunned until Hookybegan licking at his scuffed fingers.He shouldered the dog away, anddug his hands into the sand-pile tostop the bleeding. Hooky licked athis face, panting love.     Get away! he croaked savagely.     The dog whined softly, trotteda short distance away, circled, andcame back to crouch down in thesand directly before Hogey, inchingforward experimentally.     Hogey gripped fistfuls of the drysand and cursed between his teeth,while his eyes wandered over thesky. They came to rest on the sliverof light—the space station—risingin the west, floating out in Big Bottomlesswhere the gang was—Nicholsand Guerrera and Lavrentiand Fats. And he wasn't forgettingKeesey, the rookie who'd replacedhim.     Keesey would have a rough timefor a while—rough as a cob. The pitwas no playground. The first timeyou went out of the station in asuit, the pit got you. Everythingwas falling, and you fell, with it.Everything. The skeletons of steel,the tire-shaped station, the spheresand docks and nightmare shapes—alltied together by umbilical cablesand flexible tubes. Like some crazysea-thing they seemed, floating in ablack ocean with its tentacles boundtogether by drifting strands in thedark tide that bore it.      Everything was pain-bright ordead black, and it wheeled aroundyou, and you went nuts trying tofigure which way was down. In fact,it took you months to teach yourbody that      all     ways were down andthat the pit was bottomless.     He became conscious of a plaintivesound in the wind, and froze tolisten.     It was a baby crying.     It was nearly a minute before hegot the significance of it. It hit himwhere he lived, and he began jerkingfrantically at his encased feetand sobbing low in his throat.They'd hear him if he kept that up.He stopped and covered his ears toclose out the cry of his firstborn. Alight went on in the house, andwhen it went off again, the infant'scry had ceased.     Another rocket went up from thestation, and he cursed it. Space wasa disease, and he had it.     Help! he cried out suddenly.I'm stuck! Help me, help me!     He knew he was yelling hystericallyat the sky and fighting the relentlessconcrete that clutched hisfeet, and after a moment he stopped.     The light was on in the houseagain, and he heard faint sounds.The stirring-about woke the babyagain, and once more the infant'swail came on the breeze.       Make the kid shut up, make thekid shut up ...       But that was no good. It wasn'tthe kid's fault. It wasn't Marie'sfault. No fathers allowed in space,they said, but it wasn't their faulteither. They were right, and he hadonly himself to blame. The kid wasan accident, but that didn't changeanything. Not a thing in the world.It remained a tragedy.     A tumbler had no business with afamily, but what was a man goingto do? Take a skinning knife, boy,and make yourself a eunuch. Butthat was no good either. They neededbulls out there in the pit, notsteers. And when a man came downfrom a year's hitch, what was hegoing to do? Live in a lonely shackand read books for kicks? Becauseyou were a man, you sought out awoman. And because she was awoman, she got a kid, and that wasthe end of it. It was nobody's fault,nobody's at all.     He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They wererunning out there now, and nextyear he would have been on thelong long run ...     But there was no use thinkingabout it. Next year and the yearsafter belonged to      little     Hogey.     He sat there with his feet lockedin the solid concrete of the footing,staring out into Big Bottomlesswhile his son's cry came from thehouse and the Hauptman menfolkcame wading through the tall grassin search of someone who had criedout. His feet were stuck tight, andhe wouldn't ever get them out. Hewas sobbing softly when they foundhim.     Transcriber's Note:   This etext was produced from    Fantastic Universe   September 1955.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep>    A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?    <doc-sep>Manet suspected hallucination, but in an existence with all the palliddispassion of a requited love he was happy to welcome dementia.Sometimes he even manufactured it. Sometimes he would run through thearteries of the factory and play that it had suddenly gone mad hatinghuman beings, and was about to close down its bulkheads on him as sureas the Engineers' Thumb and bale up the pressure-dehydrated digest,making so much stall flooring of him. He ran until he dropped with akind of climaxing release of terror.     So Manet put on the pressure suit he had been given because he wouldnever need it, and marched out to meet the visiting spaceship.     He wasn't quite clear how he came from walking effortlessly acrossthe Martian plain that had all the distance-perpetuating qualities ofa kid's crank movie machine to the comfortable interior of a strangecabin. Not a ship's cabin but a Northwoods cabin.     The black and orange Hallowe'en log charring in the slate stonefireplace seemed real. So did the lean man with the smiling mustachepainted with the random designs of the fire, standing before thehorizontal pattern of chinked wall.     Need a fresher? the host inquired.     Manet's eyes wondered down to heavy water tumbler full of rich, amberwhiskey full of sparks from the hearth. He stirred himself in thecomfortingly warm leather chair. No, no, I'm      fine     . He let the wordhang there for examination. Pardon me, but could you tell me just whatplace this is?     The host shrugged. It was the only word for it. Whatever place youchoose it to be, so long as you're with Trader Tom. 'Service,' that'smy motto. It is a way of life with me.     Trader Tom? Service?     Yes! That's it exactly. It's      me     exactly. Trader Tom Service—Servingthe Wants of the Spaceman Between the Stars. Of course, 'stars' ispoetic. Any point of light in the sky in a star. We service theplanets.     Manet took the tumbler in both hands and drank. It was good whiskey,immensely powerful. The government wouldn't pay for somebody servingthe wants of spacemen, he exploded.     Ah, Trader Tom said, cautionary. He moved nearer the fire and warmedhis hands and buttocks. Ah, but I am not a      government     service. Irepresent free enterprise.  <doc-sep></s>","A tumbler and a hoofer are considered to be two types of people, as described by Hogey’s drunken ramblings. A tumbler is someone who lives in space and never interacts with gravity. As such, a tumbler is often clumsy and has limbs that flail about. In addition, a tumbler is not meant to be a family man, and should neither have a wife nor children. Therefore, a hoofer is a person who lives on Earth and is rooted to the ground by gravity, as they have never traveled to space. By contrast, they would have a family, like Marie Parker does with her son. In addition, the hoofers in this story are stable and kind, like the farmer and the bus driver, who all help Hogey when his limbs and center of gravity fail him. "
"<s>    A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.         the       hoofer         by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.         A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?    <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep></s>","This story takes place on Earth. As we are following the protagonist’s journey home, the setting constantly changes in terms of transportation mode and the landscape. First, we can identify the setting as a public bus, where Hogey occupies the back seats of the bus as he falls asleep clutching his gin. Hogey gets off at his stop - Caine’s junction - which is a road junction with just a few farmhouses at the side and a derelict filling station. There is also a ditch, which he promptly stumbles into. The landscape reveals the Great Plains country, with descriptions of the setting being treeless and barren, and instead being full of rolling hills and fields of grass.Towards the end of the story, the setting changes to the Hauptman’s place where the farmhouse sits off the side of the road with a barbed-wire fence. Within the tall grass of the farmhouse also lies a sloppy heap of sand - concrete. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  He  took a walk.     The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else.     He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes.     Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter.     Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon?     You a stranger?     Yes.     Thought so.     Sol repeated the question.     Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is.     How—I mean, what kindof place is it?     Said you're a stranger?     Yes.     Then 'tain't your business.     That was that.     He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody.     He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened.     Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it.     At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story.     He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing.     At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities.     Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal.     He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents.     He learned little. <doc-sep>   THE HANGING STRANGER     BY PHILIP K. DICK     ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]     Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw    it   hanging in thetown square.    Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!     It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost.     From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare.     Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.     It was a body. A human body.  <doc-sep></s>","Edward Loyce spends the whole day repairing the foundation. When he drives past the town park, he sees a thing hanging under the lamppost. He realizes that it’s a hanging human. Ed is frightened because of the hanged body and because everyone seems to not care about it. People walk past and ignore it. Ed tells the owners of other shops, trying to figure out the situation. However, both the owners think it is normal. After realizing he is the only one who feels strange, Ed gets closer to the hanged body, noticing that it’s a stranger. He bumps into Jenkins, a stationary clerk. Through the conversation with Jenkins and the jewelry store owner, he realizes that he is the only normal person in the town. He shouts to get the police, makes his way through the crowd, and finally gets into the police’s car.When he tries to understand the situation from the police, he realizes that the police are fake because he knows every cop in the town. He escapes from the fake police. When he gets closer to the police station, he sees a swarm of alien flies landing on the roof of City Hall and flying inside of the building, disguising themselves as men coming out of the City Hall. Ed realizes that they are aliens from other dimensions trying to control the humans and already control the minds of town people, except for him, as he escapes from it when repairing the foundation. He cautiously leaves and takes the bus. People on the bus are mind-controlled. A man with a book is looking at him, and Ed guesses the identity of the seemingly mind-clear man. When another older man ascends the bus and looks at the man with the book, Ed realizes the strangeness and escapes from the bus. Two men come after Ed, and Ed kills the man with the book and runs away. A doubt about killing the wrong person flashes through his mind, but he has no time to think.He tells his wife to get ready to leave when he gets home. He picks up a butcher knife and explains everything to his wife. When the twins come down, he sees a baby alien fly come toward him. Ed kills the alien, abandons his dazed wife and child, and flees. He runs ten miles towards Oak Grove. He explains everything to the Commissioner. The Commissioner records and agrees with his saying. Ed talks about his theory of the alien, but he cannot figure out the purpose of the hanged body. Finally, the Commissioner tells him that it is bait to lure people like him who escape successfully. Ed is frightened and realizes that he will be hanged in Oak Grove, just like the hanged body in Pikeville. That evening, Clarence Mason, the vice president of the Oak Grove Merchant’s Bank, sees a hanging object under the telephone pole in front of the police station."
"<s>Name? the cop with the notebook murmured.     Loyce. He mopped his forehead wearily. Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.Back there—     Address? the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly throughtraffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against theseat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.     1368 Hurst Road.     That's here in Pikeville?     That's right. Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. Listento me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—     Where were you today? the cop behind the wheel demanded.     Where? Loyce echoed.     You weren't in your shop, were you?     No. He shook his head. No, I was home. Down in the basement.     In the      basement     ?     Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.Why? What has that to do with—     Was anybody else down there with you?     No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school. Loyce looked fromone heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn'tget in on it? Like everybody else?     After a pause the cop with the notebook said: That's right. You missedthe explanation.     Then it's official? The body—it's      supposed     to be hanging there?     It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.     Ed Loyce grinned weakly. Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deepend. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something likethe Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists takingover. He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his handsshaking. I'm glad to know it's on the level.     It's on the level. The police car was getting near the Hall ofJustice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lightshad not yet come on.     I feel better, Loyce said. I was pretty excited there, for a minute.I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need totake me in, is there?     The two cops said nothing.     I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm allright, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—     This won't take long, the cop behind the wheel interrupted. A shortprocess. Only a few minutes.     I hope it's short, Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for astoplight. I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, gettingexcited like that and—     Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolledto his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the lightchanged. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,people running.     They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop inPikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a smalltown for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.     They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter,Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn'tknow—and they didn't care.      That     was the strange part.     Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past thestartled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through theback door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concretesteps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,gasping and panting.     There was no sound behind him. He had got away.     He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards andruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A streetlight wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.     And to his right—the police station.     He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocerystore rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barredwindows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in thedarkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had tokeep moving, get farther away from them.       Them?       Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was theCity Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brassand broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, darkwindows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.     And—something else.     Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser thanthe surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lostinto the sky.     He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made himstruggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.     Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging overthe City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid.      In the vortexsomething moved.     Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a denseswarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.     Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness thathung above him.     He was seeing—them.  <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.     You don't believe me, Loyce said.     The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly.     Loyce sagged. Thank God.     So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.     Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured.     What is it?     About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time.     A long time?     Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.     Why do you say that?     When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—     So?     They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.     The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle.     They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated.     Why defeated?     They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.     The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out.     Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that.      Why?     Why did they deliberately hanghim there?     That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly.       Bait.          Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean?     To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped.     Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they      expected     failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap.     And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.     Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man.      Who was theman?     I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—     There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.  <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here!     Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there.     See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past!     Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.     A reason! What kind of a reason?     Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?     Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys?     There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops.     They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere.     I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure.     Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man!     Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.     You mean it's been there all afternoon?     Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed.     Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention.     I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.     The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.     For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear.       Why?     Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?     And—why didn't anybody notice?     He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed.     Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins.     What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick.     The body. There in the park.     Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy.     Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong?     Ed's not feeling well.     Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake—     What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously.     The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there!     More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?     The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police!     Ed—     Better get a doctor!     He must be sick.     Or drunk.     Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.     Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!     The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce.  <doc-sep></s>","Edward C. Loyce has been the owner of the TV sales store in the town for twenty-five years, and he is also called Ed by the town people. He is forty years old, living at 1368 Hurst Road, Pikeville. He has a wife, Janet, and twin sons, Jimmy and Tommy. He owns a Packard. He is practical and always tries to correct wrong things. He is friendly because he knows everyone in the town, and everyone seems to have a good relationship with him. Ed is brave because when he realizes that nobody pays attention to the hanged body in the town park, he gets closer and tries to figure out who the corpse is. Ed is also brilliant because he grasps the abnormal situations immediately after noticing the difference between the current situation and the normal one and because he sees the alien’s power flaws right after knowing the situation. He is also practical because he plans what he should do right after grasping the situation in the town. He is cautious as he kills the man with the book on the bus, not letting the aliens' slight chance get him. His will is formidable because he runs with his feet for ten miles along the rough ground to escape from Pikeville and because he makes the decision immediately when he knows that he has to abandon his family."
"<s>   THE HANGING STRANGER     BY PHILIP K. DICK     ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]     Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw    it   hanging in thetown square.    Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!     It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost.     From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare.     Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.     It was a body. A human body.  <doc-sep>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here!     Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there.     See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past!     Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there.     A reason! What kind of a reason?     Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?     Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys?     There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops.     They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere.     I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure.     Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man!     Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.     You mean it's been there all afternoon?     Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed.     Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention.     I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.     The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.     For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear.       Why?     Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?     And—why didn't anybody notice?     He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed.     Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins.     What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick.     The body. There in the park.     Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy.     Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong?     Ed's not feeling well.     Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake—     What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously.     The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there!     More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?     The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police!     Ed—     Better get a doctor!     He must be sick.     Or drunk.     Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.     Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!     The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce.  <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.     You don't believe me, Loyce said.     The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly.     Loyce sagged. Thank God.     So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.     Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured.     What is it?     About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time.     A long time?     Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.     Why do you say that?     When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—     So?     They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.     The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle.     They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated.     Why defeated?     They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.     The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out.     Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that.      Why?     Why did they deliberately hanghim there?     That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly.       Bait.          Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean?     To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped.     Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they      expected     failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap.     And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.     Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man.      Who was theman?     I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—     There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.  <doc-sep></s>","The hanged human body is bait to lure people who escape successfully from the mind control of alien flies and draw themselves out. People who are not under mental control would try everything they can to escape from the controlled town to the nearby uncontrolled town, but when they arrive in the uncontrolled town, they will be hanged as another bait in the new town, just like what happens to Ed Loyce in the story. When Ed notices the hanged body in the park and the strangeness that nobody cares about, he tries everything to alert people and escape. Yet, he ends up being suspended by the Commissioner in the town nearby as a new bait to lure people like him. The fact that the uncontrolled person escapes from the controlled town is also why the hanged body looks like a stranger in a town because the person often comes from another town. This fact also constitutes why the body is caked with mud, and its clothes are torn and ripped because it is the consequence of a long journey from another town to where it is hanged."
"<s>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.     You don't believe me, Loyce said.     The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly.     Loyce sagged. Thank God.     So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.     Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured.     What is it?     About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time.     A long time?     Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.     Why do you say that?     When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—     So?     They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.     The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle.     They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated.     Why defeated?     They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.     The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out.     Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that.      Why?     Why did they deliberately hanghim there?     That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly.       Bait.          Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean?     To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped.     Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they      expected     failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap.     And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.     Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man.      Who was theman?     I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—     There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.  <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such.     When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.     The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.     The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well.     The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting.     However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked.     One, the fat man answered.      III     The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this?     I really think Gabriel      must     be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?     It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.     The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you      are     thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...?     The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem.     Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.  <doc-sep></s>","The alien flies have multi-lensed inhuman eyes, wings, and a stinger. They are dark, coming from another dimension. They look like giant insects in their original form. When they move, they will produce a buzzing sound. They can mimic the appearance of humans, and they can control human minds. However, their mind control ability has its limit that they can control one area at one time, starting from the highest authority and widening down the control in a circle. When they control the whole town, they move to another area to continue. Their power flaw makes them unable to control everyone that someone may be overlooked. When that is the case, they set up a trap, using people who escape from the controlled town as bait to hang them in public, to lure people who are not under control to come to them by themselves. They anticipate their failures and are smart enough to make up for their flaws."
"<s>  He  took a walk.     The town was just comingto life. People were strollingout of their houses, commentingon the weather, chucklingamiably about local affairs.Kids on bicycles were beginningto appear, jangling thelittle bells and hooting toeach other. A woman, hangingwash in the back yard,called out to him, thinkinghe was somebody else.     He found a little park, nomore than twenty yards incircumference, centeredaround a weatherbeaten monumentof some unrecognizablemilitary figure. Threeold men took their places onthe bench that circled theGeneral, and leaned on theircanes.     Sol was a civil engineer.But he made like a reporter.     Pardon me, sir. The oldman, leathery-faced, with afine yellow moustache, lookedat him dumbly. Have youever heard of Armagon?     You a stranger?     Yes.     Thought so.     Sol repeated the question.     Course I did. Been goin'there ever since I was a kid.Night-times, that is.     How—I mean, what kindof place is it?     Said you're a stranger?     Yes.     Then 'tain't your business.     That was that.     He left the park, and wanderedinto a thriving luncheonette.He tried questioningthe man behind the counter,who merely snickered andsaid: You stayin' with theDawes, ain't you? Better askWillie, then. He knows theplace better than anybody.     He asked about the execution,and the man stiffened.     Don't think I can talkabout that. Fella broke one ofthe Laws; that's about it.Don't see where you comeinto it.     At eleven o'clock, he returnedto the Dawes residence,and found Mom in thekitchen, surrounded by thewarm nostalgic odor of home-bakedbread. She told himthat her husband had left amessage for the stranger, informinghim that the StatePolice would be around to gethis story.     He waited in the house,gloomily turning the pages ofthe local newspaper, searchingfor references to Armagon.He found nothing.     At eleven-thirty, a brown-facedState Trooper came tocall, and Sol told his story.He was promised nothing,and told to stay in town untilhe was contacted again bythe authorities.     Mom fixed him a lightlunch, the greatest feature ofwhich was some hot biscuitsshe plucked out of the oven.It made him feel almost normal.     He wandered around thetown some more after lunch,trying to spark conversationwith the residents.     He learned little. <doc-sep>   THE HANGING STRANGER     BY PHILIP K. DICK     ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science FictionAdventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncoverany evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]     Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something waswrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw    it   hanging in thetown square.    Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his carout and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. Hisback and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement andwheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had doneokay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and heliked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!     It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurryingcommuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles andpackages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerksand businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a redlight and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over therecords of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He droveslowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, thetown park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Againhe passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountainand bench and single lamppost.     From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolleddown his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display ofsome kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in thesquare.     Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the parkand concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was adisplay it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and heswallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.     It was a body. A human body.  <doc-sep>They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he hadfinished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out hiscigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.     You don't believe me, Loyce said.     The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatientlyaway. Suit yourself. The Commissioner moved over to the window andstood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. I believe you,he said abruptly.     Loyce sagged. Thank God.     So you got away. The Commissioner shook his head. You were down inyour cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.     Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. I have atheory, he murmured.     What is it?     About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Startingat the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in awidening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the nexttown. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going onfor a long time.     A long time?     Thousands of years. I don't think it's new.     Why do you say that?     When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. Areligious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—     So?     They were all represented by figures. Loyce looked up at theCommissioner. Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly.     The Commissioner grunted. An old struggle.     They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. Theymake gains—but finally they're defeated.     Why defeated?     They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got theHebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. Therealization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think theyunderstood. Had escaped, like I did. He clenched his fists. I killedone of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.     The Commissioner nodded. Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control. Heturned from the window. Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figuredeverything out.     Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from thelamppost. I don't understand that.      Why?     Why did they deliberately hanghim there?     That would seem simple. The Commissioner smiled faintly.       Bait.          Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. Bait? What do you mean?     To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who wasunder control—and who had escaped.     Loyce recoiled with horror. Then they      expected     failures! Theyanticipated— He broke off. They were ready with a trap.     And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known. TheCommissioner abruptly moved toward the door. Come along, Loyce. There'sa lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste.     Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. And the man.      Who was theman?     I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger.All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—     There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.Maybe, he said softly, you'll understand that, too. Come along withme, Mr. Loyce. He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught aglimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, aplatform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! Right this way,the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.  <doc-sep></s>","The story happens in Pikeville town and Oak Grove town. The first scene occurs in the town park where the hanged body is. In the park, there is a lamppost, a drinking fountain, and a bench. Under the lamppost, the body is hanged. The second scene is in the car, where Ed has a conversation with the fake police. When Ed escapes from the fake police, he runs into a hardware store filled with customers and clerks. There is a back door in the shipping room, a garbage can next to the door, and concrete stairs outside the store towards the top of the fence. The other side of the fence is an entrance to an alley, which is filled with boards and ruined boxes and tires. Passing the loading platform of a grocery store stands one wall of the Hall of Justice. The wall is white with barred windows. The City Hall is next to the police station, with yellow wooden walls with brass cement steps. Cedars and flowers are planted on each side of the entrance. When Ed gets on the bus, the people sitting around him are all dull, tired, and quiet. No one pays attention to him. People seem to be normal: one is reading the newspaper, another with business suits sits quietly, and the other gazes absently towards the front. When Ed escapes from the bus, he runs into a residential district, pavement sides with tall apartment buildings and lawns. When Ed comes home, there are windows with shades in the living room. The house is a two-floor building. The twin’s room is upstairs. There is a basement in the house. In the kitchen, a butcher knife lies in the drawer under the sink. On his way to Oak Grove, rough ground, gullies, open fields, and forest are along the way. In Oak Grove, there is a gasoline station and drive-in. Several trucks park there—some chickens on the field and a dog tied with the string. In front of the police station in Oak Grove, a telephone pole is suitable to hang a human body."
"<s>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  <doc-sep>   THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN     By BRYCE WALTON     Illustrated by BOB HAYES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        First one up this tallest summit in the Solar       System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!        Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.     'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe.     Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce.     Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited.     Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished.     We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said.     Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to?     Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said.     I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it?     Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.     I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.     Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.     They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set on Mars. A group of conquerors from Earth arrived here after the last four crews never returned after deciding to climb a very high Martian mountain. The fifth team with Bruce, Marsha - his past love interest, Anhauser, Jacobs, Doran, Max Drexel, Stromberg - the psychologist, and its captain Terrence arrived here on their ship Mars V eight months ago. A day before the ascent Bruce is reading Byron and thinking about his bizarre dreams. Then we see an inquest. With all the crew members listening, Terrence interrogates Bruce and asks why he shot Doran. Bruce reminds the crew about the genocide of the Venusian aborigines: five years ago, he and Doran were part of the crew of the first ship that landed on Venus; these explorers wiped out the entire Venusian community. Terrence claims that Bruce is mentally ill and doesn’t have the real conquering blood. The captain understands the young man doesn’t believe in the philosophy of conquering and remains faithful to the old ideas of democracy and freedom. Bruce then explains that Marsha and Doran woke him up after a bizarre dream, and he immediately saw something or someone in the window. When Doran saw the creature, he left the room, and Bruce heard his rifle go off. Infuriated, Bruce killed the man. Stromberg deems Bruce a delusional schizophrenic and says that Doran probably imagined the creature, too. Instead of punishing the man by executing him, Terrence orders Bruce to write down everything they report via radio while they are climbing. He stays by the radio, eats what they left for him, and sometimes sleeps. Eventually, Terrence reports that the mountain is way higher than they anticipated - 45 00 feet. Later, he screams that he just killed Anhauser for dissent. The captain speaks of their great conquest, and Bruce sometimes replies to prove he's still writing down everything. His dreams become more realistic and he seems to see some crew members of the previous expeditions: Pietro, Marlene, and Helene. Terrence reports that they are at an altitude of five hundred thousand feet and later adds that Marsha is dying. She says she loves Bruce, and he recites a poem for her. Terrence later crazily speaks about toppling the Solar system but soon stops reporting. Bruce turns off the radio. The exterior of the ship changes - now he sees a small town and the grandiose mountain vanished. Not sure if it’s a dream or not, he approaches Helene, who eventually explains that the Martians wanted to stop the human conquerors. They decided to create an illusion of an infinitely high mountain, and the colonists felt an uncontrollable urge to climb it. They both walk to a red mound, where Bruce notices the bodies of the crew members of all five ships. Only people like him remained alive. Bruce looks at them and, together with Helene, leaves the mound, entering the city."
"<s>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  <doc-sep>   THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN     By BRYCE WALTON     Illustrated by BOB HAYES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        First one up this tallest summit in the Solar       System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!        Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly toopen the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'dsneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozingoff, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to bepostponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them ofhuman beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all,but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of alast unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.     'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakeningtill the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow, Bruce said. Hesmiled without feeling much of anything and added, Thanks, Mr. Poe.     Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and intoBruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even largerin the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slylyat Bruce.     Come on in, boys, and get warm, Bruce invited.     Hey, poet, you're still here! Anhauser said, looking astonished.     We thought you'd be running off somewhere, Jacobs said.     Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.Where? he asked. Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did youthink I'd be running to?     Any place just so it was away from here and us, Anhauser said.     I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes careof that, doesn't it?     Ah, come on, get the hell out of there, Jacobs said. He pulled therevolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. We got to get somesleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning.     I know, Bruce said. I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain.     Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at thegigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountaindidn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Marseight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had nevergot back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow,like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.     They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higherthan any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. Theentire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hillsby erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that oneincredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, ithad seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger atEarth—or a warning one.  <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep.     He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene.     Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense.     The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.     '      ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....     '     So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams.     And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.     If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable.     Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos.     But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.     Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It      is     impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up—     And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts.     Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door.     Marsha, he said.     Bruce—     She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.     Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter....     He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all....       Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?  <doc-sep></s>","At the beginning, Jacobs, Bruce, and Anhauser talk aboard their ship Mars V which recently landed on the windy surface of Mars. Bruce then looks at the even Martian landscape with an incredible mountain right near the ship and the double moons illuminating the surface. When everybody else leaves to climb the mountain, he spends his time on the spaceship, eating, sleeping, and sitting by the radio. Bruce dreams of a green valley and canals inside a town. And later, when the crew stops reporting anything, he finally can see the real landscape of Mars. He looks at numerous low hills with purple mist, a canal, and valleys with green trees. The mountain disappeared. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, there is an ugly red mound with the bodies of the conquerors lying there. After looking at Marsha and Terrence, together with Helene, he walks along the canal back to the city.  "
"<s>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  <doc-sep>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep.     He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene.     Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense.     The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.     '      ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....     '     So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams.     And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.     If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable.     Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos.     But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.     Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It      is     impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up—     And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts.     Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door.     Marsha, he said.     Bruce—     She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.     Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter....     He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all....       Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?  <doc-sep>They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. Whenthey came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains,actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go onwalking.     It may seem cruel now, she said, but the Martians realized thatthere is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it,either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it isgiven an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided theConquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They hadto.     He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the erodedhills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tiedtogether with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyondthem were those from      Mars V     , too freshly dead to have decayedmuch ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs andMarsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managedto climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretchedout, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.     The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds,red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelvemiles from the ship—horizontally.     Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into thefresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peacebeside the canal.     He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than thatother time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared somuch, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow ofHelene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silentlyflowing water of the cool, green canal.     You loved her?     Once, Bruce said. She might have been sane. They got her when shewas young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'dbeen older when they got her.     He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with theleaves floating down it.     '... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will neverseem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain waterin the feathery green of the year....'     He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calmcity. He didn't look back.     They've all been dead quite a while, Bruce said wonderingly. YetI seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago.Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?     Who knows? Helene answered softly. Maybe. I doubt if even theMartians have the answer to that.     They entered the city.   <doc-sep></s>","Bruce and Marsha were close years ago when they lived on Earth. They shared similar values and loved each other, but eventually, Marsha became one of the conquerors, ready to expand the human territories. Now she’s almost emotionless. Bruce is disappointed and reckons that the other conquerors had gotten her young, and there was nothing he could do about it. When he’s interrogated, the psychologist asks if she saw any creature before Bruce shot Doran. She seems hesitant and doesn’t look at Bruce when denying seeing anything. When she is dying, she crazily laughs and admits that she is in love with him, asking Bruce to read her a poem. At the end, he finds Marsha’s body among the eroded hills and puts it beside the city canal. He says that he loved her once, and she could’ve been sane, different if the conquerors hadn’t got her when she was so young. "
"<s>Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip.Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openingsthey looked out on a strange and isolated world.     To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, MountTamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowywhite sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttonson a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding,tallest of the peaks and most forbidding.     But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds ofgold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a smallportion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemedto have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with itscolor.     Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed nointerest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes,Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear.     Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by whichInvaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruinsof the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cableover the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate wasthe advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered onthe water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the needto kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge.     Roddie took the hammer from his waist.     Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered herface with scratched and bloodied hands.     Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and,weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends.Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories.     Why should you cry? he asked comfortingly. You know your people willcome back to avenge you and will destroy my friends.     But—but my people are your people, too, Ida wailed. It's sosenseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Yourfriends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and thecity is ours, not theirs!     It      can't     be, Roddie objected. The city surely belongs to thosewho are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even tome. Each of      us     has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to beaimless. Each of      us     helps preserve the city; you only try to rob andend it by destroying it.      My     people must be the true Men, becausethey're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational tolet you escape.     Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him.     Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl incold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two?Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day?     She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yetsomehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he saidnothing.     Never mind! Ida said viciously. You can't make me beg. Go ahead andkill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over thecity regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jackfriends, too! Men can accomplish anything!  <doc-sep>It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit.     Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours.     We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully.     If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first.     We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked.     Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too!     His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it.     They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him.     Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us.     And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message:     Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition      Quest III     .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are      you     ?     There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the      Quest III     too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship.     Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now.     Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul.     There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not.     The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold.     Is that all? demanded Llud.     Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it.     The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before—           We know who you are     , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent,       and pleading will do you no good.       <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  <doc-sep></s>","The mountain is a sign of an impossible obstacle that the conquerors from Earth want to overcome, topple. Their urge to expand their territories and own the entire Solar System forces the Martians to come up with an illusion of something that can stop the destruction humans are spreading. The Martian mountain is a part of the hypnotic vision the conquered had access to, but they never saw the Martian city. They all ultimately died trying to climb it, from their drive to conquer everything they could find. The mountain is a perfect symbol of humans’ greed for territories and power, and it is also what stops them all from expanding their so-called empire. "
"<s>The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began toworry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrencewas saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. Hisdream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he hadleft it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time differencenecessitated by his periods of sleep.     He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names:Pietro, Marlene, Helene.     Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real tohim all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he couldalso talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense.Consistently, they made sense.     The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Greenvalleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailingtheir branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and therewere pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through themthat were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.     '      ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting,shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to thedelirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all ourown!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known....     '     So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to thedreams.     And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He wouldlook out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothingbut seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.     If I had a choice, he thought, I wouldn't ever wake up at all again.The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable.     Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but hecouldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he woulddie. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back intohimself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be onecompensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of themwho had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's wayacross the Cosmos.     But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying himmuch more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. Hecould switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.     Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figureto be five hundred thousand feet! It      is     impossible. We keep climbingand now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain isgoing up and up—     And some time later: Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's thematter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keepslaughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it.Women don't have real guts.     Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistledsoftly at the door.     Marsha, he said.     Bruce—     She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.     Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I rememberhow you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. Inever thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn'tmatter....     He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.Bruce, hello down there. Her voice was all mixed up with fear andhysteria and mockery. Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wishI were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that?I really love you, after all. After all....       Her voice drifted away, came back to him. We're climbing the highestmountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful andwarm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. Whatare you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What wasthat, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me lastnight before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?  <doc-sep>He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on themike. He got through to her.     Hello, hello, darling, he whispered. Marsha, can you hear me?     Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling.Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down.     He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how shelooked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, withMarsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something ofthat hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her,as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barrenrocks.   '... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain, But down, my dear; And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley Will never seem fresh or clear For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water In the feathery green of the year....'    The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the soundof his own voice.     Marsha, are you still there?     What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?Terrence demanded. Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run intoany signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel ourdestiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, andwe'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We'regoing up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to thetop, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, athousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of thisworld—the top of      everything     . The top of the  UNIVERSE  !     Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something orother—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned intocrazy yells that faded out and never came back.     Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybethey were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. Heknew they would never come back down.     He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the colorationbreak over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for aninstant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed filmnegatives.     He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city wasout there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yetsunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and therewas a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside thesoftly flowing canal water.     The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent,drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glasswavered down the wind.     He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same,but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into thisone, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, fromthat world into this one of his dreams?     The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking acigarette.     He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, butnow he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown betweenthem. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown.She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look atbecause she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and onlywhat was.     He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the rowof spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like oddrelics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five shipsinstead of four.     There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building,and the other buildings. He looked up.     There was no mountain.  <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts.     He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.     At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing.     At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this!     At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce!     From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth.     And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—     Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time.     From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are.     Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—     Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.     It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams.  <doc-sep></s>","Terrence is the ship’s captain. At the beginning, he serves as a judge when he interrogates Bruce, who killed the other crew member Doran. Terrence listens to the story about Venus and claims that Bruce is not a true conqueror and is simply a psycho. He then asks a question about Bruce’s dreams and later hears the story of Doran's death. Stromberg then concludes that Bruce has schizophrenia caused by inner conflict. He also supposes that Doran imagined the strange creature after Terrence asks him to explain the actions of the killed crew member. Finally, instead of killing Bruce, Terrence orders him to sit by the radio and write down everything they report while climbing. He reports that they are at fifteen and then twenty-five thousand feet and are to take a little time out. At forty thousand feet, he tells Bruce that the mountain is way higher than they thought - their computations are wrong. At sixty thousand feet, he shoots Anhauser after the latter starts dissenting and becomes hysterical and claims the mountain to be a tester for the real conquerors. Eventually, they reach the mark of five hundred thousand feet, and the captain is shocked. Later, Marsha unexpectedly starts dying, and Terrence concludes that women don’t have real guts for such undertakings. At six hundred thousand feet, he starts declaring that they will soon find the top of the universe. Terrence made it farther than any other crew member of the five ships. He dies with his fingers still clutching the rock outcroppings. In reality, he’s just over twelve miles away from the spaceship horizontally. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  <doc-sep>   Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  <doc-sep></s>","The protagonist of this story is Roddie, a young male character whose interactions with the characters around him include mechanical arms and robotic functionalities. It turns out that Roddie lives within a dystopian city, to which alongside his android friends, seek to defend the city against its enemy. Whilst going about his day, Roddie investigates the manhole he often frequents and finds that it has recently been visited by something warm. Further investigation reveals Ida to be the culprit, a human female who has decided to help the wounded in the city.Despite Roddie’s initial hesitance, Ida and Roddie strike up an easygoing acquaintance and gallivant around the city, with the latter guiding the former due to his experience. In addition to helping Ida find food and shelter, Roddie is able to ward off a potential attack from an android soldier with a talisman - his watch. However, this watch leads Ida to be suspicious of Roddie. As they neared the bridge, Ida insists on bringing Roddie back to where he belongs, fearing he had been wrongfully taken or indoctrinated. After a chase and climbing up the south tower, Roddie notices that Ida may be able to inform her fellow humans on how to infiltrate the city due to them being on top of the bridge. Choosing to defend his city and prove himself to his friends, Roddie does not hesitate to kill Ida and advances to do so. Ida begins to cry and defend her people - insisting that they are on the same side as Men and that the city belongs to the two of them, not Roddie’s friends. Initially in disbelief, Roddie continues to advance before deciding to leave it for the next morning before comforting Ida and later on, realizing that he too, is Man. "
"<s>I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.     Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.     For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk.     Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen.     It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties....     But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey      can't     leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men.     Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things?     She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.     He went on with his questioning. Why are      you     here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's      your     purpose?     Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon.     She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly?     No, but you do seem a little purposeless.     In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach.     A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm.     Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on!     He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.      It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking.     There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away.     Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head.     Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water.     Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs.     I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water.     Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash.     Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it?     Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before.     Why did the soldier let us go?     This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman.     But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength.     And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away.     But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim.     He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.  <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.     Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.     Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.     What are you trying to do? he demanded.     I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong!     No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here!     Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.     She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.     Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped.     He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job....     But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface.     For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.     Except it wouldn't be      his     solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends.     He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.     Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed.     But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.  <doc-sep></s>","Ida is a human girl that Roddie first encounters when she is hiding in the manhole that he frequents himself. She appears to have come into the android-ridden city on her own with the altruistic desire to help the wounded. She is selfless and persistent in her mission. She is inexperienced with the android world as demonstrated by her fright when the pair encountered a soldier, who only walked away after Roddie confronted it. Similarly, Roddie had to guide her around the city and help her with access to resources like shelter and food. Ida is loyal and brave as well. Despite Roddie threatening to kill her at the end of the story, Ida insists on the idea that they are both human and that Roddie’s way of thinking was incorrect. In the end, she is able to discourage him from killing her and he ends up comforting her. "
"<s>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.     Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.     For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk.     Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen.     It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties....     But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey      can't     leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men.     Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things?     She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.     He went on with his questioning. Why are      you     here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's      your     purpose?     Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon.     She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly?     No, but you do seem a little purposeless.     In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach.     A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm.     Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on!     He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.      It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking.     There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away.     Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head.     Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water.     Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs.     I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water.     Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash.     Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it?     Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before.     Why did the soldier let us go?     This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman.     But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength.     And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away.     But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim.     He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.  <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.     Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.     Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.     What are you trying to do? he demanded.     I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong!     No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here!     Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.     She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.     Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped.     He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job....     But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface.     For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.     Except it wouldn't be      his     solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends.     He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.     Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed.     But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.  <doc-sep></s>","Although Roddie has been preparing his entire life for defense against something, someone, he never knows who his enemy is. Ida - by nature of being Man - is his enemy, as Roddie believes him to be an android. When they first meet in the darkness, Roddie is afraid that Ida may realize what he is. However, they have no trouble once they see each other and spend the entire day together. Roddie proudly takes the role of Ida’s caretaker, noting that she is scared of the soldiers and not as strong as he is, so he takes her to a supermarket and feeds her. However, when Roddie reveals the talisman that prevented the soldier from attacking, their relationship changes. Ida tries to take Roddie back to her boat where she proclaims he belongs and Roddie insists that he belongs in this android-ridden dystopia. In their chase, they end up atop a tower. Realizing Ida now has the knowledge to bring home to the Invaders on how to enter the city, Roddie feels a sense of duty to kill her. She is the enemy, as he thinks she wishes to harm his city. As Ida cries - something Roddie can do but his friends can’t - he realizes that he too is Man and decides not to kill her.  "
"<s>I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  <doc-sep>   Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  <doc-sep>He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted tolook as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle ofconcrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for theunwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on crackedgirders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.     Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roadsmade a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.     Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.     What are you trying to do? he demanded.     I'm taking you with me, Ida said firmly. Taking you where youbelong!     No! he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. Ibelong here!     Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.     She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in andout among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where theythrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.     Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cableanchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional danglingsupport wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida wastrapped.     He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedlywould, to finish the job....     But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation shedashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curvedsteel surface.     For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up theever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes orhandgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.     Except it wouldn't be      his     solution. Her death wouldn't prove him tohis friends.     He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fogthat billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect alongthe top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curvesteepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.     Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it whenhe'd followed.     But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie wouldadmit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him atevery downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching onlyhis holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.  <doc-sep></s>","The first tool that Roddie uses is a screwdriver with a broken handle. He uses it to tinker with and screw Molly’s head back onto her robot body, after tearing it off himself. He also used it when he was considering heating it over a fire to mold it into a different tool, but ended up not completing it. His hammer is his weapon. Roddie keeps his hammer on his body, which he was able to reach for conveniently when he initially found a warm body hiding in the manhole. All throughout this initial encounter with Ida, Roddie has his hammer close to him, either clutching it or holding it in his mouth while climbing the ladder. He also uses it as a tool to break open cans. Finally, at the end of the story, he is prepared to use the hammer to kill Ida - even going as far as raising it threateningly - before deciding not to. "
"<s>   Bridge Crossing     BY DAVE DRYFOOS     Illustrated by HARRISON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He knew the city was organized for his     individual defense, for it had been that     way since he was born. But who was his enemy?      In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again.     But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.     He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof.     But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight.     And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't      want     little boys. The soldiers don't      want     little boys. Thesoldiers don't—     I'm      not     a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even      seen     an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?     Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.     A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted.     Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.     Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking.     Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.     It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.  <doc-sep>I'd like to get a look at you, he said.     The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting gray out. You'll seeme soon enough.     But she'd see      him     , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.     What'll we do when it's light? he asked.     Well, I guess the boats have gone, Ida said. You could swim theGate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'llthink it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked itover from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!     Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Evenher own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there      were     a way over the bridge....     It's broken, he said. How in the world can we cross it?     Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to bealone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?     Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killedher—      if     nothing happened when she saw him.     Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.     A giggle broke the pause. It's nice of you to wait and let me go firstup the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty oldthing?     I'll go first, said Roddie. He might need the advantage. Theladder's right behind me.     He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand fromstreet level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervouslyfingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.     She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From hershapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feetthat were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.     Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and thatwould make things easy when the time came.     He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with afull mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when helooked too long.     Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush offear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burstinto sudden laughter.     Diapers! she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big,strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, andcarrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettablecharacter I have ever known!     He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath,and said, I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways.     Oh, not at all, Ida replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn'tsay odd.  <doc-sep>When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie'sassertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered ifshe felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions ofwhat the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with anInvader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.     Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.     For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would doany good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the mostdirect route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, andshe began to talk.     Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaninglessto him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers hadbeen.     It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so manycasualties....     But why do you—we—keep up the fight? Roddie asked. I mean, thesoldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it andthey      can't     leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'llbe plenty of young men.     Well! said Ida, sharply. You need indoctrination! Didn't they evertell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keepus out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all ourtools and things?     She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance.But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was tooclose for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulderevery few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.     He went on with his questioning. Why are      you     here? I mean, sure, theothers are after tools and things, but what's      your     purpose?     Ida shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said,but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have noweapon.     She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush ofwords. It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of boredand hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of theboats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I wasbeing silly?     No, but you do seem a little purposeless.     In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood andconcrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog overthe water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and theycould see the beginning of the bridge approach.     A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, andclung to Roddie's arm.     Behind me! he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on!     He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his backbelow the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood asoldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.      It's all right, Roddie said, his voice breaking.     There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turnedand walked away.     Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddieturned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips tohis. He grimaced and turned away his head.     Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed, and slipped fromhis arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared. And then we'vehad no sleep, no food or water.     Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing todeny his own humiliating needs.     I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take careof you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water.     Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket hehad previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by settinga pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he hadgrubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose.Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashedan end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strainedspinach or squash.     Baby food! she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eatbaby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did youhappen to know where to find it?     Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging.I've been here before.     Why did the soldier let us go?     This watch, he said, touching the radium dial. It's a talisman.     But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. Shewas silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied canwith rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in therubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew herstrength.     And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showedplainly that he'd given himself away.     But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross thesupposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive asIda herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death wouldsatisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, hemight join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with thisenemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protecthim.     He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations ofhis watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulderat every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need forthis self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.  <doc-sep></s>","Put simply, Roddie is Man and his friends in the story are androids. Despite growing up with them and having been brought up by Molly, Roddie is human. One clear difference is the fact that Roddie is able to tear off the limbs of his friends and repair it back together. For example, he tore off Molly’s head when her “spells” became worse, and then later tinkered it back on her head. Another example of this difference is when Ida begins to cry at the end of the story, and Roddie internally expresses that the first time he wept was the first time he noted a difference between him and his android friends, who presumably cannot emote in the same way. Similarly, they do not know pain nor fatigue, so Roddie pretends he doesn’t either. At the very end of the story, he finally accepts that he is Man. "
"<s>   DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table.     Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment.     He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors.     I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said.     Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk.     Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.     I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls.     Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily.     Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material.     Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio.     At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.     The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis.     However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found.     The rest will also be!     Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors.     Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion,      The Dance of the Planets     .     That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:   This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep></s>","The story is set in the future where Mars’ two moons Phobos and Deimos unexpectedly vanished, space travel exists, and monogamous marriages are lawful. Celeste Wolver talks to her friend Madge Carnap, who claims that the old book The Dance of The Planets predicted the moons’ disappearance. Wolver’s husband, one of the three ones she has, Theodor tries to explain that the book predicts only some events, but he and Celeste soon understand they don’t have strong arguments. Then Celeste and Theodor leave for a meeting regarding the recent events. While walking there, she shares her worries with him. Theodor says ESPs around the world have similar dreams. So, Rosalind, one of his wives, will bring their daughter Dotty to the meeting. Celeste, Rosalind, Frieda, Theodor, and Edmund were waiting only for the third husband, Ivan. Rosalind leaves to look for him, and the others start the meeting. They listen to recent news recordings: Mars’ moons disappeared; Kometevskyites - people that believe in the theory of The Dance of The Planets - demand some government's action. The news anchorman declares that Jupiter’s fourteen moons are not visible anymore. Rosalind comes back and says she only found Ivan’s briefcase covered in mud, with the phrase Going down” hastily written on it. They alert local agencies and talk about the project - Deep Shaft - Ivan was studying. The family splits up for a thirty-minute break, and Rosalind goes to where she found the briefcase. There the woman soon starts sinking into the ground. Rosalind realizes what happened to Ivan and leaves a glove pointing down as a sign; soon, her body is underground, and she keeps moving down mud and soil. Theodor, who went to the bar for the break, meets a colonel who tells him that there is a war between good and evil, and the planets are battleships controlled by divine power. The stories of these characters get interrupted by small extracts from Dotty’s dreams, where she calls herself a god, and says she and her friends have been found by their enemies and need to flee. Dotty wakes up and tells Celeste she is a god. Celeste goes back to everybody, and Edmund lists all the known facts. He says Deep Shaft found a metallic durasphere inside the Earth and proposes that other moons had it too. Ivan and Rosalind are drawn into the depth of the Earth, and in their dreams, all ESPs say they will leave in some great boats. Everybody understands that their planet is a camouflaged spaceship. Suddenly, Dotty says in an unfamiliar voice that their assumption is correct. The creature uses Dotty to tell them people were part of the camouflage they needed to hide from the enemies who don’t support mental privacy. Now they have to leave and can take only a few people. Suddenly, the creature says that their enemies changed, and now they don’t need to hide or destroy the planet. Rosalind and Ivan return."
"<s>   DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  <doc-sep>He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bringthemselves to put it into words.     I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard forus to accept, he said softly. Much more, even, than the size-scale.The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the wholecareer of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a fewthousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than aminor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage.     This time he went on, Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sortsof odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of singleliving creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, mightbe....     In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, ... a camouflaged fleet ofgigantic spherical spaceships.           Your guess happens to be the precise truth.          At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swungtoward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefiedlittle girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.     She said, I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologistscall the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number oftelepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case mythoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit thedisguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth.     Celeste swayed a step forward. Baby.... she implored.     Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, It is true that we plantedthe seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of ourcamouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. Andit is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Ourhiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we mustmake one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believethat the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted ourexistence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.     But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole raceis deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it isour rule never to interfere with its development. That was one ofthe reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make ourpursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.     Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution withinterest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shapedyour development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you awayfrom war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betrayingclue to our pursuers.     Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in thearea of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. Wecannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but becauseyou could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would besubjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, ofwhich we have enough only for a few.     Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new humanrace may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born.  <doc-sep>Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glancedaround at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, thaneven they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement,but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost toooverpowering for a human being to bear.     His voice was clipped, rapid. I think it's about time we stoppedworrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the SolarSystem, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on thedisappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sortingout the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. Thereare roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like amystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come tothe same conclusion I have.     The others nodded.     First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, asyou know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. Atapproximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers haveencountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively namedthe durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongestcorrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for aquarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by themirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slightcurvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earthitself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the worldwould encounter the durasphere at the same depth.     Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, andparticularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. GrantingPhobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that ofEarth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material inthose two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that thetwo duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanicvelocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind.     It was deadly quiet in the committee room.     Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especiallythe baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind'sdownward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawninto the depths of the Earth.     Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in thefollowing points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlikeand telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree ofmental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. Theyare pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for themanywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflagetheir ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do notpenetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected.     Edmund waited. Do you see what I'm driving at? he asked hoarsely.  <doc-sep></s>","The incredibly old semi-god creatures escaped the tyranny of a communal mind to which no thoughts were private. These creatures believe in the principle of mental privacy, and that’s why they escaped and planted seeds of life on planets, including the Earth, as part of their camouflage. Humanity exists as a result of these actions, and it also may shrink in numbers since the creatures have been found by their pursuers and are ready to leave again, thus destroying the planet. The belief in this principle also allowed the enemies of these creatures to rebel against the communal mind and welcome them back to the society of enlightened worlds and let humans live. "
"<s>Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hystericalweeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for wordsto speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TVset.     Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picturewindow and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along thepaths with a wild excitement.     On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning inthe sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to helpEarth rejoice, she couldn't tell.     Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcomeyou—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—intothe society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and aloneand helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you!     The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,arm in arm.     Like rockets, Rosalind blurted happily. We came through thedurasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface.     They didn't have to take us along, Ivan added with a bleary grin.But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you livein fear, so they must have told you by now.     Yes, we know, said Theodor. They must be almost godlike in theirgoodness. I feel ... calm.     Edmund nodded soberly. Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, Isuppose, that—well, we're not alone.     Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a whollylittle-girl smile.     Oh, Mummy, she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoketo Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, I've just had the funniest dream.     No, darling, said Rosalind gently, it's we who had the dream. We'vejust awakened.  <doc-sep>Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shapedsilver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they weresprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd milejourneys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after theheat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice thatspoke inside their minds.     In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atomthick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endurealmost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particlewill be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endurethroughout the process.     Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering,      will they gofirst, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple?       She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing.  <doc-sep>Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. Weneed a break.     Frieda agreed wearily. We've gone through everything.     Good idea, Edmund said briskly. I think we've hit on several crucialpoints along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass ofinconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right nowand present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour?     Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching hiscloak over a shoulder.     I'm going out for a drink, he informed them.     After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Friedastretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilmstirelessly, every now and then setting one aside.     Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward theroom where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped.       Not my child     , she thought bitterly.      Frieda's her mother, Rosalindher nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends.A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world.       But then she straightened her shoulders and went on.  <doc-sep></s>","Rosalind is a member of the Wolves family, the wife of Theodor, Edmund, and Ivan. At the beginning of the story, she comes to the meeting of their family sub-committee. When Ivan doesn’t show up, Rosalind decides to go to the Deep Space Bar and try to find him. On her way back, she finds his briefcase half-buried in the dirt. It has a hastily written phrase “Going down” written on it. Shocked, she comes back and shows her findings to everybody. They alert the local agencies and create their family member’s description that is broadcast. They decide to take a small break, and Rosalind leaves right after Theodor. She doesn’t catch up with him and stops at the place where she found the briefcase. Suddenly, her feet get stuck, and her body starts sinking into the ground. She understands that the same thing happened to Ivan and decides to leave her glove to show what happened to her. Soon earth covers her head, and she keeps moving down through different soil levels. The temperature rises, and soon she ends up in a silver egg-shaped room where she meets Ivan. A voice inside their heads explains that their bodies will soon go through a painless process of separation into small atom-thick layers which will enable them to endure almost infinite accelerations, and their consciousness will be intact. They learn more about the Earth and its function. Soon, when the pursuers of the semi-god creatures tell them about the changes they made, Rosalind and Ivan are shot back to the surface. They walk back to their family."
"<s>   DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced.       People must have felt like this     , she thought,      when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can.       You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man.     She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse.     Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar.     Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right.     And of course she was.     She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked.     Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads.     Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand.     Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps.     Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late.     But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it?     In me, Theodor said promptly.     In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan.     You angry with me about something?     Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided.     Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that?     Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you.     Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting.     Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter?     Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her.     No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance.     Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep.     As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon.     Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in      Gulliver's Travels     Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature.     Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean?     Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available.     It was true, but it didn't comfort him much.  <doc-sep>   I am a God     , Dotty was dreaming,      and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to.       A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act.       I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats     , Dottywent on dreaming.      The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us.    <doc-sep></s>","Throughout the entire story, the narrative gets interrupted by small parts of Dotty's dreams. She has extrasensory abilities, and the semi-god creatures use her and other ESPs to communicate with people. In her dreams, she tells the story of these creatures' life. She speaks about their belief in mental privacy and says that other gods do not want them to have private thoughts and decide to hunt them down. The creatures that value privacy of thoughts create inhabited planets and manage to hide for millions of years from the others. But now they have been found and need to flee again. Dotty’s dreams conceptually explain the origin of the planets of the Solar System and why those need to be destroyed now. Through her dreams, the creatures tell the Earth is their camouflaged spaceship, and they will soon need to live. "
"<s>   DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY     By FRITZ LEIBER     Illustrated by DAVID STONE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Before science, there was superstition. After       science, there will be ... what? The biggest,       most staggering     , most final      fact of them all!        But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the nextreshuffling of the planets.     Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend MadgeCarnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title,      The Dance of the Planets     . There was no mistaking the time ofits origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to thatparticularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celestea brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confounda world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifletoward her husband Theodor.     He tried to come to her rescue. Only predicted in the vaguest way. AsI understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidencedrawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positionsevery so often.     As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs,Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.     Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and isto end up in the orbit of Mercury, Theodor continued. Well, nothingat all like that has happened.     But it's begun, Madge said with conviction. Phobos and Deimos havedisappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact.     That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simplyvanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyesof astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles ofrock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with themthe security of a whole world.  <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced.       People must have felt like this     , she thought,      when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can.       You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man.     She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse.     Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar.     Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right.     And of course she was.     She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked.     Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads.     Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand.     Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps.     Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late.     But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it?     In me, Theodor said promptly.     In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan.     You angry with me about something?     Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided.     Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that?     Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you.     Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting.     Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter?     Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her.     No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance.     Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep.     As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon.     Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in      Gulliver's Travels     Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature.     Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean?     Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available.     It was true, but it didn't comfort him much.  <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table.     Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment.     He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors.     I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said.     Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk.     Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.     I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls.     Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily.     Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material.     Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio.     At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.     The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis.     However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found.     The rest will also be!     Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors.     Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion,      The Dance of the Planets     .     That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:   This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep></s>","From the beginning, Celeste seems to struggle with her complex marriage. She finds it hard to find complete security in three men simultaneously. In a crisis, it’s disturbing for her to have her source of security divided into three. She also cannot accept that Dotty is her daughter because the girl was born from Frieda. Celeste points out that the probability of Dotty being Theodor’s daughter is only one-third. She reckons that humanity might have gone too far with some things, including monogamous marriages. While in the committee room, she tries to determine if they are a true family or just experimenting with their relationship. The family members seem both familiar and unfamiliar to her. When she wants to check up on Dotty, she thinks that she is no one to the girl but still goes on. Dotty, after a small chat, makes Celeste say that she loves her. In the end, the reader understands that, no matter what Celeste’s feelings are, Dotty loves all three women and considers them mothers. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle.     Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!     Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.     Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country.     Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians—     Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj.     Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.  <doc-sep></s>","Harry Burr is begged by his wife Edna to go see a doctor because she believes that he is sick in the head. He refuses to believe that anything is wrong, but he does admit that there are times where he lies in fear over nothing and mixes up his memories. The story then jumps to the present, where he begins to think about a blond boy named Davie. Edna is confused because they have no children. Edna brings up seeing a doctor again, he angrily responds that it will only be Timkins who brought their son into the world. Edna tells him they had no son, and Timkins died a while ago. The scene cuts to breakfast, where Harry complains about a lack of meat. Edna explains that there is only multi-pro because of the current crisis in the country. Harry begins to go walk outside, but he experiences more strange memories that don’t add up. He picks up the delivery that Edna ordered. Edna asks if there is anything good on television this week because there is only one channel. After a late lunch, Harry goes to check on the animals again and wonders what happened to the rest of the livestock. Edna tells him that they got the same as everyone else, and he goes upstairs again. When he awakes again, Gloria and Walt have arrived. He asks about Penny and Frances. After they leave, He takes his mare Plum out for a ride, and they arrive at a barbed wire fence area up north. He gets over the wire and continues to walk north, until the earth changes to sand. Then, the sand becomes wooden flooring; there is also a loud roaring sound. When he reaches a waist-high metal railing, he runs back to Plum again. Harry has the idea to ride to town, even if the other neighbors tell him to stop and for somebody to call the police. Soon, two policemen come out to escort him to the doctor. Harry asks the doctor where his son is, and the doctor explains that he is dead like so many millions of others. The doctor tells him he has so many things to do, and he says there are a few remaining people who are still alive. Harry’s brain struggles with the impossible concept, and he thinks about how this is not Iowa. Just as Harry realizes what they are on, the switch is thrown, and he finds himself feeling better from the diathermy treatment. Before Harry leaves, the doctor tests him one last time by telling him that they are on an ark. Harry is confused, which means that the treatment works. He goes home to Edna and is happier than ever. "
"<s>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments?     Diathermy, the little doctor muttered.     Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said.     The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.     Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency?     You will, Mr. Burr.     Harry walked to the door.     We're on an ark, the doctor said.     Harry turned around, smiling. What?     A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.     Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.     Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig!   <doc-sep>   BREAKDOWN     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by COWLES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine June 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick      that     way—in the head!     Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing.     The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste....       Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school.       He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie?     She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who?     I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.     He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast?     Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed.     She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—     You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....     She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said.     He himself just couldn't remember it.     He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they      had     had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't.  <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.     Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming.     He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor.     He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out!     But why, Harry, why?     He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid.     If you say so, Harry.     He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people....     He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.     He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?     He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.     Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.     He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.     His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind.     He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around.     Was he forgetting again?  <doc-sep></s>","Doctor Hamming is first described by Edna as someone who can treat Harry’s so-called “mental problems”. She insists for Harry to go see him multiple times, but Harry refuses every time. Finally, when Harry is escorted by the policemen does he go meet Doctor Hamming in person. In person, Doctor Hamming is a thin little man with a bald head and framed glasses. He also wears a white coat and looks about one hundred years old. He lives with his two sons, and his wife is not around anymore. His son’s names are Pete and Stan. Doctor Hamming is a very stressed person, constantly trying to manage the ark. He is also impatient as well, raising his voice when Harry asks him about his dead son. However, although the doctor is impatient, he is very knowledgeable in his field as well. He predicted that people will begin to die from a disaster and invested a lot of his money to build the ark. He has exceptional planning skills, picking out the farmers in the rural areas as people to continue living on the ark because he knows how important the farmers are. The doctor’s treatments are very successful as well, capable of completely erasing Harry Burr’s conflicting memories and making him forget that they are on an ark. "
"<s>   BREAKDOWN     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by COWLES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine June 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick      that     way—in the head!     Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing.     The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste....       Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school.       He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie?     She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who?     I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.     He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast?     Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed.     She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—     You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....     She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said.     He himself just couldn't remember it.     He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they      had     had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't.  <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now.     When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?     Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?     He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week.     She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna?     Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates.     He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.     He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions.     Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny?     Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week.     She's five already? Harry asked.     Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book.     And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved.  <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments?     Diathermy, the little doctor muttered.     Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said.     The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.     Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency?     You will, Mr. Burr.     Harry walked to the door.     We're on an ark, the doctor said.     Harry turned around, smiling. What?     A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.     Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.     Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig!   <doc-sep></s>","Harry and Edna Burr are married. Initially, Edna is very concerned about Harry because of the strange memories that he experiences. She tries to plead with him to see a doctor, but he refuses to believe it. Harry is seen getting impatient with Edna, mainly because she is confused about the questions or people that he talks about. Even though she is concerned, Edna is good at comforting Harry. When he complains about the lack of meat, she tells him that they will have some multi-pro for lunch. The two of them split their duties as well, with Edna doing a lot of the housework and Harry doing the more manual labor. She also tries to suggest activities to do, such as asking what’s on the channel for this week. Edna loves Harry very much, but she does encourage him to seek a doctor to help his mental health. At the end, when Harry returns from his treatment, she asks if he has gone out to break any regulations. He only laughs and says he would rather kill a pig than do that. "
"<s>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle.     Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!     Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.     Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country.     Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians—     Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj.     Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>I wished I had been born a couple of hundred years ago—before peoplestarted playing around with nuclear energy and filling the air withradiations that they were afraid would turn human beings into hideousmonsters. Instead, they developed the psi powers that had always beenlatent in the species until we developed into a race of supermen. Idon't know why I say      we     —in 1960 or so, I might have been consideredsuperior, but in 2102 I was just the Faradays' idiot boy.     Exploring space should have been my hope. If there had been anythinguseful or interesting on any of the other planets, I might have founda niche for myself there. In totally new surroundings, the psi powersgeared to another environment might not be an advantage. But by thetime I was ten, it was discovered that the other planets were justbarren hunks of rock, with pressures and climates and atmospheresdrastically unsuited to human life. A year or so before, the hyperdrivehad been developed on Earth and ships had been sent out to explore thestars, but I had no hope left in that direction any more.     I was an atavism in a world of peace and plenty. Peace, because peoplecouldn't indulge in war or even crime with so many telepaths runningaround—not because, I told myself, the capacity for primitive behaviorwasn't just as latent in everybody else as the psi talent seemed latentin me. Tim must be right, I thought—I must have some undreamed-ofpower that only the right circumstances would bring out. But what wasthat power?     For years I had speculated on what my potential talent might be,explored every wild possibility I could conceive of and found noneproductive of even an ambiguous result with which I could fool myself.As I approached adulthood, I began to concede that I was probablynothing more than what I seemed to be—a simple psi-negative. Yet, fromtime to time, hope surged up again, as it had today, in spite of myknowledge that my hope was an impossibility. Who ever heard of latentpsi powers showing themselves in an individual as old as twenty-six?     I was almost alone in the parks where I used to walk, because peopleliked to commune with one another those days rather than with nature.Even gardening had very little popularity. But I found myself most athome in those woodland—or, rather, pseudo-woodland—surroundings,able to identify more readily with the trees and flowers than I couldwith my own kind. A fallen tree or a broken blossom would excite moresympathy from me than the minor catastrophes that will beset anyhousehold, no matter how gifted, and I would shy away from bloodynoses or cut fingers, thus giving myself a reputation for callousnessas well as extrasensory imbecility.     However, I was no more callous in steering clear of human breakdownsthan I was in not shedding tears over the household machines when theybroke down, for I felt no more closely akin to my parents and siblingsthan I did to the mechanisms that served and, sometimes, failed us.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set on an ark that Doctor Hamming put money into creating. Although it resembles Iowa, the residents are fooled to believe that it is indeed Iowa. Each of the residents have their own farm and land area, and they are restricted to only staying inside a certain area. For the Burrs, they cannot go beyond the Shanks’ place. Harry’s farm area has his house, an area for the livestock, and a tractor shed that was supposed to be torn off. Their area also has a supply bin that is shaped like an old-fashioned wood bin for deliveries from the government.  The land they live on is also shared with the Franklins. When Harry takes Plum out for a ride, they go up north past the Franklins to where the Bessers should be.  Then, they reach a small Pangborn farm.  Beyond Pangborn, there lies old Wallace Elverton’s place, which is known as the biggest farm in the country. There is barbed wire in this area, and he walks past it. Slowly, the earth becomes sand and then wood. There are also colored folks living here, when there shouldn’t have been, and a place called Piney Woods exists as well. The place where Doctor Hamming  lives is two miles past Dugan’s farm. It resembles a hospital, but there is nobody else inside of it. "
"<s>   BREAKDOWN     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by COWLES     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine June 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going onfor weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new housetwo miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused toadmit he was sick      that     way—in the head!     Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there weremoments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in hismind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watchingthe first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear.A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it wasbased on nothing.     The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There werechores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Exceptthat now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had onlya vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fieldsremain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going towaste....       Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growingstronger each day from helping out after school.       He turned and shook Edna. What happened to Davie?     She cleared her throat, mumbled, Huh? What happened to who?     I said, what.... But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was partof a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.     He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened hereyes as soon as his weight left the bed. Like hotcakes for breakfast?     Eggs, he said. Bacon. And then, seeing her face change, heremembered. Course, he muttered. Can't have bacon. Rationed.     She was fully awake now. If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Justfor a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—     You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want tohear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won'tbe that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins,who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and....     She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. Theyhad no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone tohis funeral. Or so Edna said.     He himself just couldn't remember it.     He went to the bed and sat down beside her. Sorry. That was just adream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off lastnight, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with allthe new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had ason. He waited then, hoping she'd say they      had     had a son, and he'ddied or gone away. But of course she didn't.  <doc-sep>Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but thegreatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, We're on.... but theswitch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then hegot out of the chair and said, Sure glad I took my wife's advice andcame to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after onlyone.... What do you call these treatments?     Diathermy, the little doctor muttered.     Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles inchange. That's certainly reasonable enough, Harry said.     The doctor nodded. There's a police officer in the hall. He'll driveyou home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations.     Harry said, Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulationsand rationing and all the rest of the emergency?     You will, Mr. Burr.     Harry walked to the door.     We're on an ark, the doctor said.     Harry turned around, smiling. What?     A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye.     Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd beenworried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thoughtmaybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.     Me? he exclaimed, amazed. Break travel regulations? I'd as soon killa pig!   <doc-sep>Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back tothe barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into thepastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right.They had only a dozen or so now.     When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?     Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?     He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a facethat had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long andlean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned andwent to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according toregulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath watertwice a week.     She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must beshowing. He managed a smile. You remember how much we got for ourlivestock, Edna?     Same as everyone else, she said. Government agents paid flat rates.     He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He wentupstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them,and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he wasglad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.     He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria weresitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'dgotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. Found it in the supplybin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to thebook of directions.     Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talkedabout TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, How's Penny?     Fine, Gloria answered. I'm starting her on the kindergarten booknext week.     She's five already? Harry asked.     Almost six, Walt said. Emergency Education Regulations state thatthe child should be five years nine months old before embarking onkindergarten book.     And Frances? Harry asked. Your oldest? She must be startinghigh.... He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and becausehe couldn't remember Frances clearly. Just a joke, he said, laughingand rising. Let's eat. I'm starved.  <doc-sep></s>","One of the government restrictions that Edna reminds Harry about is the rationing of meat. Due to the crisis in the country, there is a shortage of meat. Instead of actual meat, most people eat multi-pro, which is similar to spam. The government also sets up boundaries for the residents to stay inside of, and they are not allowed to go past these regulations or else the police will come. The government also takes care of supplies, and most residents just have to write down what they want and pay a bill. In terms of money, the government takes care of it as well each week. Each farm receives the same number of animals because government agents paid flat rates. When Harry finds the stock of grain, he notes that the government has enough to keep going for a few years. Television is also restricted to old movies, playing only on one channel from nine to eleven at night. Later, it is revealed that these restrictions are imposed to keep the people alive on the ark long enough until they can begin to expand civilization again. "
"<s>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said.     Probably Jilka.     Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said.     She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.     At your folks'?     At the ship.     The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said.     The one we're going to      Fieu Dayol     on.           Fieu Dayol?          Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I?     In other words, you're kidnapping me.     She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both.     But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Whydon't you marry one of them?     For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are      not     plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on      Fieu Dayol     so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for      wotnids     —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.     But why were all the messages addressed to you?     They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl.  <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,      The Zeitgeist     , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's      History     reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf.     After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words      wotnid     ,      FieuDayol     and      snoll doper     —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword—      Yoolna     —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the      Klio     whose name had appended thefirst message.     He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and      The Zeitgeist     .     Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her.     She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside.     He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap—     I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off.  <doc-sep>   The Girls From Fieu Dayol     By ROBERT F. YOUNG     They were lovely and quick     to learn—and their only     faults were little ones!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's      History of English Literature     , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.     On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section.     He had just taken down Xenophon's      Anabasis     when he saw the girl walkin the door.     Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.     After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the      Anabasis     and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's      History of English Literature     .     He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser.     Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone.     He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time?     He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing.     By whom—her boy friend?     Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's      History     under observation for a while.  <doc-sep></s>","Herbert Quidley finds a yellow paper with unintelligible words folded in the book called History of English Literature by Hippolyte Adolphe Taine. After he continues to work, he sees a girl come in, browse randomly, and take Taine’s book. The girl quickly riffles through the book, puts it back on the shelf, and leaves the library. After the girl leaves, Quidley checks the book, noticing the disappearance of the yellow paper. He learns the girl’s name, Kay Smith, from the librarian and goes home. On his way home, he guesses that the paper is a kind of message transmitted through an esoteric book. He guesses the identity of the person who might do this message job with Kay, none of which pleases him as he has a liking for the girl, so he decides to observe this messaging action for a while.The following day, when Quidley waits at the library, a girl different from Kay comes to the library, puts another paper in Taine’s book, and leaves. Quidley sees the paper and finds another batch of unintelligible words, from which he finds two common words, Fieu Dayol and snoll doper. He puts back the letter and goes back to his seat. When the library is about to close, Kay comes to take the paper and leaves. Quidley follows behind her into a coffee bar. He intentionally spills the sugar on her, which allows him to start talking to her. Throughout the conversation, Quidley reveals his identity as a profiliste and accepts Kay’s request to make her a profile. They set up a time to meet next time. After they separate, Quidley goes home and writes a letter to his father for the allowance.Two days later, Quidley goes to the library again and sits at his reading-table post with his favorite magazine. He sees the third woman come in and do the same thing as the previous girls. He reads the new message and returns to his apartment waiting for Kay. He thinks about the meaning of snoll doper. When Kay comes, they do something sexually. The following day, puzzled by the secret of the snoll doper, Quidley decides to read the message before the exchange happens. Kay finds out that Quidley is reading the message. She tells him to come with her to deliver the snoll doper to Jilka and meet her folks. When Quidley waits in the car, he realizes the possible true identity of Kay and what may happen next. Quidley learns from the conversation with Kay that they are heading to the ship to Fieu Dayol. He also learns that Kay is the ship’s stock girl, and all the messages are actually requisitions for the snoll dopers. He realizes that he is kidnapped to another planet, Fieu Dayol, where women outnumber men. He sees a man with Jilka ascend the ship and disappear. Kay forces Quidley to go into the ship by pointing him with a shotgun, which is called snoll doper in Kay’s language."
"<s>   The Girls From Fieu Dayol     By ROBERT F. YOUNG     They were lovely and quick     to learn—and their only     faults were little ones!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's      History of English Literature     , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.     On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section.     He had just taken down Xenophon's      Anabasis     when he saw the girl walkin the door.     Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.     After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the      Anabasis     and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's      History of English Literature     .     He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser.     Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone.     He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time?     He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing.     By whom—her boy friend?     Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's      History     under observation for a while.  <doc-sep>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said.     Probably Jilka.     Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said.     She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.     At your folks'?     At the ship.     The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said.     The one we're going to      Fieu Dayol     on.           Fieu Dayol?          Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I?     In other words, you're kidnapping me.     She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both.     But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Whydon't you marry one of them?     For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are      not     plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on      Fieu Dayol     so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for      wotnids     —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.     But why were all the messages addressed to you?     They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl.  <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,      The Zeitgeist     , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's      History     reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf.     After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words      wotnid     ,      FieuDayol     and      snoll doper     —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword—      Yoolna     —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the      Klio     whose name had appended thefirst message.     He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and      The Zeitgeist     .     Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her.     She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside.     He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap—     I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off.  <doc-sep></s>","She is tall with hyacinth long hair and blue eyes. Her skin is glowingly white. Her body shape is Grecian symmetric. She fascinates Herbert Quidley, a man who finds out the secret letter in Taine’s book, when she walks in the library. She is the receiver of secret messages in the book, and she goes to the library almost every day to pick up the letter in the book. She wears a pleated skirt when Herbert Quidley spills the sugar on her thighs. She speaks with a slight accent that she pronounces “interesting” with “anteresting.” She walks demurely. She wears a dress that exposes a lot of her skin when she goes to Quidley’s apartment, which indicates her intention to have sexual behaviors with him. She owns a convertible, and her purse hides a gun. She is the stock girl on the ship to Fieu Dayol, and her job is to deliver guns to her members, which is why she goes to the library to pick up the secret letters, the requisitions for the guns. It is revealed at the end that she comes to the Earth to bring men to her planet."
"<s>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The      snoll-doper     mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place.     He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior....      Cutto interior.     FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—     ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....     Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform:       a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj       Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications!     You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.     Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the      snoll-doper     enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a      snoll doper     ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb.     He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like       ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo     ?     He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.     He remembered the material of her dress.     He remembered how she had come to his room.     I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.  <doc-sep>   The Girls From Fieu Dayol     By ROBERT F. YOUNG     They were lovely and quick     to learn—and their only     faults were little ones!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's      History of English Literature     , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.     On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section.     He had just taken down Xenophon's      Anabasis     when he saw the girl walkin the door.     Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.     After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the      Anabasis     and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's      History of English Literature     .     He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser.     Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone.     He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time?     He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing.     By whom—her boy friend?     Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's      History     under observation for a while.  <doc-sep>It's all right, it's only sugar, she said, laughing.     I'm hopelessly clumsy, he continued smoothly, brushing the gleamingcrystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.I beseech you to forgive me.     You're forgiven, she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with aslight accent.     If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send thebill to me. My address is 61 Park Place. He pulled out his wallet,chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—     Herbert Quidley:      Profiliste       Her forehead crinkled.       Profiliste?          I paint profiles with words, he said. You may have run across someof my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms,of course.     How interesting. She pronounced it anteresting.     Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike myfancy. He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking adainty sip. You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—     Smith. Kay Smith. She set the cup back on the counter and turned andfaced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupiedhis entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbinglyclear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanishedwhen she said, Would you really consider word-painting      my     profile,Mr. Quidley?       Would     he! When can I call?     She hesitated for a moment. Then: I think it will be better if I callon you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house.I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist likeyourself to concentrate.     Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes aweek, to reach the apartment phase. Fine, he said. When can I expectyou?     She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even tallerthan he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels,she'd have been taller than he was. I'll be in town night after next,she said. Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?     Perfectly.     Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley.     He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actuallydid try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at hiscustom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper inhis custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But asusual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title,      SelfProfile     , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the BetterMagazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendidarray of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit,occupying a two-page spread.     It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did thefirst thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet ofpaper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting anadvance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, hewent to bed.  <doc-sep></s>","Herbert Quidley is a profiliste who often stays in the library. He has a variety of pseudonyms for his career, each of which has its own card in his wallet. He owns a hardtop. He lives at 61 Park Place. He often wears Cuban heels. His favorite little magazine is The Zeitgeist. He likes everything old, such as old books, old wines, old woods, and old paintings. But most of all, he likes young girls, which is why he starts his observations on Kay’s behavior, a girl who exchanges letters through the book in the library. Quidley is a very thoughtful and careful person because whenever he reads the mysterious letters in the book, he always puts the letters back in the book and replaces the book on the shelf. He always sits at the reading table to observe the girls. He knows very well about romantic stuff and how to have sexual relationships with girls as he has his own skill called Operation Spill-the-sugar to start a conversation with a stranger woman. However, Quidley has little moral on sexual relationships because whether the targeted girl has a boyfriend would not deter his intention to conquer her."
"<s>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,      The Zeitgeist     , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's      History     reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf.     After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words      wotnid     ,      FieuDayol     and      snoll doper     —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword—      Yoolna     —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the      Klio     whose name had appended thefirst message.     He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and      The Zeitgeist     .     Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her.     She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside.     He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap—     I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off.  <doc-sep>The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The      snoll-doper     mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the nextmessage transfer took place.     He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which heintended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plottedmentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercialnon-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes,he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventureflowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision:the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorfulcharacters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesqueheroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd everdone! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of thebookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley wason display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior....      Cutto interior.     FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there anymore copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. Youdon't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ranout. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure thatmy children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOKCLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tellme quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—     ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....     Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true toform:       a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing?Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Ginded, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj       Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisleand staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kaydoing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and hercorrespondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girlscouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badgesin communications!     You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.     Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the      snoll-doper     enigma. Thefact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a      snoll doper     ,for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to anH-bomb.     He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speakEnglish if her own language ran something like       ist ifedereret, hidjestig snoll doper adwo     ?     He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.     He remembered the material of her dress.     He remembered how she had come to his room.     I didn't know you had a taste for Taine.  <doc-sep>In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay hadunwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messagesuntil that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at thelibrary. The following evening, however, after readying his apartmentfor the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-tablepost and took up      The Zeitgeist     once again.     He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.     And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed andgraceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophysection now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into theliterature aisle and toward the T's....     The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:       fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Ginden snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snolldoper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsajkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;       Judging from the repeated use of the words,      snoll dopers     were thetopic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put thebook back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.     He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank whata      snoll doper     was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateursecret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged.It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course,they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would bequixotic enough to employ Taine's      History of English Literature     as acommunications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore anda mailbox on every corner?     Somehow the words what on earth foreign organization got turnedaround in his mind and became what foreign organization on earth andbefore he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienceda rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was hisnormal self again.     He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if hisshirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, andlooked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everythingwas—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk,with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference booksstacked imposingly nearby;      Harper's     ,      The Atlantic     and      The SaturdayReview     showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly openedbottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; thesmall table set cozily for two—  <doc-sep></s>","Snoll doper appears in every letter that is hidden in History of English Literature by Hippolyte Adolphe Taine, a book favored by Hebert Quidley, from which he finds these letters and starts his observation. Quidley finds these words several times when he secretly reads the letters in the book whenever a girl comes to put a new letter in the book. He is fascinated by the first girl called Kay Smith who takes the first letter after he notices it. From then on, he has been guessing the meaning of snoll doper. At first, Quidley thinks that snoll doper means a person who has close relationships with Kay, like a boyfriend or a husband. He is annoyed by this possibility after having sexual behaviors with Kay, which causes him to secretly read the fourth letter before Kay comes to pick it up. When Kay finds out that Quidley has been reading her letter, she tells him to come with her to deliver the snoll doper to Jilka, where Quidley is relieved because he realizes that snoll doper is the name of an object, not an identity. On their way to Jilka’s place, Quidley keeps asking Kay what the meaning of snoll doper is, but Kay doesn’t tell him. At the end of the story, snoll doper turns out to be the name of a shotgun, which is what the letters are for, a requisition for the shotgun. Those letters are sent toward Kay because she is the ship’s stock girl who delivers the guns. In conclusion, snoll doper is a word that puzzles Quidley throughout the whole story and causes him to be caught by Kay, the purpose of those secret letters transmitted between Kay and other girls through the book, and an object that forces Quidley to go into the ship."
"<s>A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speedwith theirs. Someone's following us, Quidley said.     Probably Jilka.     Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street anddisappeared. She's no longer with us, Quidley said.     She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later.     At your folks'?     At the ship.     The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visiblein the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:What ship? he said.     The one we're going to      Fieu Dayol     on.           Fieu Dayol?          Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet myfolks, didn't I?     In other words, you're kidnapping me.     She shook her head vehemently. I most certainly am not! Neitheraccording to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, youmade yourself liable in the eyes of both.     But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Whydon't you marry one of them?     For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromisedme. Two, there are      not     plenty of men on      Fieu Dayol     . Our race isidentical to yours in everything except population-balance between thesexes. At periodic intervals the women on      Fieu Dayol     so greatlyoutnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally andemotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for      wotnids     —ormates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As amatter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien culturesto expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellarstatute forbidding us the use of local communications services andforbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitatethe prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject toit, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own.     But why were all the messages addressed to you?     They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stockgirl.  <doc-sep>Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friendturned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air ofher own. From the vantage point of a strategically located readingtable, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine,      The Zeitgeist     , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard routeto the shelf where Taine's      History     reposed, take the volume down,surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pagesand return it to the shelf.     After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the secondmessage. It was as unintelligible as the first:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habewotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestigtoseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Caiwas, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words      wotnid     ,      FieuDayol     and      snoll doper     —that the two communications were in thesame code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the lastword—      Yoolna     —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and thatshe was a different person from the      Klio     whose name had appended thefirst message.     He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the bookto the shelf and went back to the reading table and      The Zeitgeist     .     Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginningto think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup tilltomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the sametactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though bychance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the sameundetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked outthe door, he was not far behind her.     She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. Ittook him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her.When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of anall-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely amatter of following her inside.     He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good steadbefore, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple.First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then yousituated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and thenearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, andafter the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited tillhe/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar.When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such away that some of its contents spilled on her lap—     I'm terribly sorry, he said, righting it. Here, let me brush it off.  <doc-sep>   The Girls From Fieu Dayol     By ROBERT F. YOUNG     They were lovely and quick     to learn—and their only     faults were little ones!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's      History of English Literature     , Herbert Quidley's penchant for oldbooks had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue.Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto thebackground for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.     On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copypaper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:       asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkjCai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe FieuDayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio,asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj       Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it backin the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine?Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper intothe literature section.     He had just taken down Xenophon's      Anabasis     when he saw the girl walkin the door.     Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item onHerbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and oldpaintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all heliked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the wayHelen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her andstarted building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair andliquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that wouldhave made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Pariswasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.     After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian'sdesk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley loweredhis eyes to the      Anabasis     and henceforth followed her progress out oftheir corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a bookand glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to theP's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she pausedagain and took down Taine's      History of English Literature     .     He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking aninterest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single librarywere ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that thevolume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through itwith the air of a seasoned browser.     Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selectedanother—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk.She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tuckedit under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night.As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and tookTaine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmarkwas gone.     He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several linesof gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or wasit merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of animpatient typing student to type before his time?     He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian thatthe girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. Thename rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise hadcontained the word Cai, and if you pronounced it with hard c, you gotKai—or Kay. Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, andhad been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dreamof borrowing.     By whom—her boy friend?     Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let thepresence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, butbecause the term itself brought to mind the word fiance, and the wordfiance brought to mind still another word, one which repelled himviolently. I.e., marriage. Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's      History     under observation for a while.  <doc-sep></s>","The first scene is in the library. Hippolyte Adolphe Taine’s History of English Literature is in the literature section. The books are categorized in alphabetical order. Taine’s book is in the T-section. The secret letters are always hidden in Taine’s book in the T section, where the girls from Fieu Dayol always stop and take the book. A librarian sits at the front desk to handle administrative stuff. There are reading tables. The second scene is in an all-night coffee bar where Herbert Quidley conducts his Spill-the-sugar operation to start the conversation with the girl next to him. There is a sugar dispenser on the counter. The third scene is in Quidley’s apartment. There is a custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, a typewriter inserted with a blank sheet of paper, and the reference books stacked nearby. The magazine rack has Better Magazines, Harper’s, The Atlantic, and The Saturday Review. There is also a small table and a sideboard with a bottle of bourbon and two snifter glasses on top. The fourth scene is on the highway where Quidley is stuck in the car. The rutted road with trees points towards a ship. A ship with its lock open is hiding in the trees. It is dark."
"<s>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it.     But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it?     It's ... Captain Midas.   <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  CAPTAIN MIDAS     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at     the torn derelict floating against the velvet void.     Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How     could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure....     These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot....     I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen.     I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....     You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for      us     ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.  <doc-sep></s>","This story follows the Martian Maid’s journey and features its crew members: a captain nicknamed ‘Captain Midas’, Mister Spinelli the Third Officer, and various other shipmates. It is revealed that many of the crew members have a lust for making money, and an apt opportunity to do so is discovered when Mister Spinelli spots a derelict ship amongst the asteroids that could be claimed by them. After a first exploration, Midas ends up with a mystery metal collected from the starship. In his further investigation, he finds that this mystery metal transforms into a heavier metal with a yellow tinge - gold. At the same time, he finds that holding the metal evokes fatigue in him, particularly in his arms. This initial investigation was interrupted by Spinelli barging into Midas’ quarters and spotting the gold. Fearful of the other shipmates knowing and hence collecting it for themselves, Midas threatens Spinelli’s silence. Midas continues the acquisition of this derelict ship by sending a crew, led by Cohn, to further investigate and take control of the ship. With Midas and Spinelli left behind, they watch their shipmates enter the alien ship. While waiting to hear back from the crew, Midas notices that Spinelli has arranged the Maid’s gun to point at the derelict ship and their crew mates. Initially enraged, Midas soon calms down as he begins to suspect that the rest of the crew knows about the gold and may be hatching an alternate plan. Two days past the check-in time, the pair receives a garbled message from the crew. Midas orders them to disembark and depart, but the starship begins to divert its course. In arguing between something being wrong and Spinelli telling the crew about the gold, Spinelli begins to inch towards the firing panel for the gun and a tussle emerges between the two with Midas killing him. After re-catching the derelict ship, Midas boards the ship to look for the rest of his crew mates. He finds the walls to turn into yellow metal and the decks to have a yellowish cast as well. Inside the ship, he sees skeletal and rusty versions of his crew, and comes to the horrifying realization that the transformation of the metal into gold comes at the expense of him and his crew member’s youth and strength. Running from the ship, Midas reboards the Maid and quickly throws the alien ship back into space. Back on Callisto, the Foundation relieves him of his command as the illness spreads to the rest of his body. "
"<s>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it.     But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it?     It's ... Captain Midas.   <doc-sep>  CAPTAIN MIDAS     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at     the torn derelict floating against the velvet void.     Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How     could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure....     These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot....     I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen.     I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....     You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for      us     ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.  <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.       First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being.         Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law     .     [15]       Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law.       Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept.     A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.     And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.     With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane.     If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending  [16]  on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so.     So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.     If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a      responsible     human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane.     The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person.     As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.  <doc-sep></s>","Captain Midas is the captain of the spaceship Martian Maid, who unknowingly takes the spaceship on its last flight in this story. He is described to be relatively young at 32 years old, but after interacting with the metal and at the end of the story, has the physical appearance of an eighty year old man with wrinkles and veiny hands. He is a greedy man. In the beginning of the story, he honestly admits that he would do quite a few things for a few solar dollars, which we see throughout the story. In addition to his greed, he is a selfish man, as in discovering the gold he threatens Spinelli to secrecy in order to keep the highest gains for himself. It is also this greed that allows Spinelli to get away with initially aiming the gun at the derelict ship and their fellow shipmates on board in case those shipmates try to escape with the gold.  There are brief moments where he is shown to be an honorable man. For one, he fights Spinelli over blasting their fellow shipmates, and ends up killing Spinelli instead by accident. At the end of the story, he becomes terrified of the derelict ship and its devil metal, and yet still chooses to go aboard it to seek out his shipmates. "
"<s>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it.     But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it?     It's ... Captain Midas.   <doc-sep>  CAPTAIN MIDAS     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at     the torn derelict floating against the velvet void.     Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How     could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure....     These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot....     I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen.     I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....     You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for      us     ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","This story takes place in the Holcomb Foundation aboard Martian Maid. The Martian Maid is a grand ship that took off from Solis Lacus on its last flight; the ship spanned 200 feet in its length and despite its sleek exterior, was an armed ship as well. The Maid was on an orbit in a region strewn with asteroids between the outer systems and the EMV triangle. Aboard the spaceship, interactions between the characters in the story largely took place in the Control room. It also takes place in Captain Midas’ quarters, where he investigates the mystery metal. The setting also changes to include the derelict ship the crewmates had found, which presented itself as a shell of a vessel with torn interiors and yellow-tinged walls. "
"<s>I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reportedit from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundationship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose ofdeveloping spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the wholeresponsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Neverin history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrialintelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all justassumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind ofunreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.     There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately thatSpinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every oneof us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. Allthis before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!     All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescopeI saw that there was something different about this one. At such adistance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass,but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd everseen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with myslide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that thederelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was somethingabout its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer,and showed him my figures.     Mister Cohn, I said, chart in hand, do these figures look right toyou?     Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures.It didn't take him long to check me. The math is quite correct,Captain, he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference ofthose figures on the chart.     Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn, I ordered.     The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tugof the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soonthey were assembled in Control.     You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find, I said, I havecomputed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seemsto be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress.... Reaching intothe book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's      Space Regulations     and opened it to the section concerning salvage.     Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating InterplanetaryAstrogation and Commerce, I read, Any vessel or part of vessel foundin an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of spacenot subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-MarsTriangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of thevessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such casesas the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readilyascertained.... I looked up and closed the book. Simply stated, thatmeans that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled toclaim it as salvage.     Unless it already belongs to someone? asked Spinelli.     That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much dangerof that, I replied quietly. My figures show that hulk out there camein from the direction of Coma Berenices....     There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred poundsuneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. You think ...you think it came from the      stars     , Captain?     Maybe even from beyond the stars, Cohn said in a low voice.     Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. Thefirst impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soonevery man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would beworth money ... lots of money.     Spinelli said, Do we look her over, Captain?     They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worthplenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.     Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli, I said sharply.Certainly!  <doc-sep>A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in thedoorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His blackeyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table.He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to methat his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear wasthe meaning of the expression on his heavy face.     Mister Spinelli! I snapped, In the future knock before entering myquarters!     Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. From thederelict, Captain? There was an imperceptible pause between the lasttwo words.     I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand onthe rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.     Speak your piece, Mister, I ordered sharply.     Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prizecrew ... sir, he said slowly. I'd like to volunteer for that detail.     I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was afirst class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk wouldneed good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned meto beware. I shook my head. You will stay on board the Maid with me,Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship.     Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turningslowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheathim of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.     We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, MisterSpinelli, I said deliberately, Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Isthat clear?     Aye, sir, murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his faceand there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as heturned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't likehim to let it go at that.     Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn'tfunctioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. Irubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wonderingabout Spinelli.     Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, andafter that there was tension in the air. Distrust.     For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threatto clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the firstplace I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in thesecond place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.     I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, andI was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it thatthere was no double-cross.     I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned therest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk.That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with thetreasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that theywere to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.     I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight withthat starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. FinallyI had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I hadset the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.  <doc-sep>Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the mawof the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluishfire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in agreat arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maidfollowed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controlson automatic.     Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a sixinch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These werenasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce aman to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit thatit wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder andkeeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insuranceagainst Zaleski.     When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing toblast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary fromthe orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything comebetween him and that mountain of gold.     Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleskitold the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hardfor the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plentyof places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousandtons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked.Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed upa little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn'tseemed likely before, but now—     The gun-pointer remained as it was.     As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still wellwithin visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number ofmessages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maideight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having takenthe time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.     Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, andridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I wouldhave when the starship was cut up and sold.     My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered ifI hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of myhands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determinedto report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's notelling what can happen to a man in space....     Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came throughgarbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal.Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hourslater I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with ananimal suspicion.     They're faking!     Like hell they are! I snapped irritably, Something's gone wrong....     Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!     I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. Then you did disobeymy orders. You told him about the gold!     Sure I did, he sneered. Did you expect me to shut up and let youland the ship yourself and claim Captain's share?      I     found her, andshe's mine!     I fought to control my temper and said: Let's see what's going on inher before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli.     Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed onthe image of the starship on the viewplate.     A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.     Get this down, Spinelli!     The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: Aye ...sir.     The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the handthat held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words werefailing.     CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ...WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ...CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA.... The light stopped flashing, abruptly,in mid-word.     What the hell? demanded Spinelli thickly.     Order them to heave to, Mister, I ordered.     He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve inthe star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as thoughthe hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.     Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make thecorrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk insight.     Those skunks! Double crossing rats! he breathed furiously. Theywon't shake loose that easy! His hands started down for the firingconsole of the supersonic rifle.     I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.           Spinelli!          My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked himaway from the panel.     Get to your quarters! I cracked.     He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily andhe moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closingspasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.     You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli! I said.  <doc-sep></s>","Mister Spinelli is Third Officer under the command of Captain Midas and was the first to report the derelict ship and observe its potential to be claimed by the Maid. Spinelli is the first and only crew member to identify the metal from the abandoned ship as gold when he saw Captain Midas with it. The tension between Midas and Spinelli escalates and their relationship becomes antagonistic as both of them desire to benefit the most from this valuable gold and with Midas constantly pulling his authority over Spinelli. After Midas barrs him from being a part of the investigative crew, suspicion arises between the two as Spinelli suspects Midas wishes to keep the pot of gold for himself and Midas thinks that Spinelli may be telling others. This tension further escalates as Midas sees Spinelli nearly hit the trigger of the gun and in rage, the two end up fighting each other before Midas aimed a kick at his temple and killed him. "
"<s>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way.     It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps.     Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what?     We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured.     The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her.     In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces.     There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken.     She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left.     He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff....     We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters.     I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything....     The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made?     Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand.      It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier     ....     Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre.     For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now....       Gold!       I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top.      Gold!       I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold!     And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery....  <doc-sep>On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquittedme of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me anothership. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and aspaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like mostgreat treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, thedust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...all of it.     But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that peoplelaugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me mynickname. Have you heard it?     It's ... Captain Midas.   <doc-sep>  CAPTAIN MIDAS     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at     the torn derelict floating against the velvet void.     Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How     could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure....     These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot....     I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen.     I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....     You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for      us     ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.  <doc-sep></s>","The mystery metal is significant because it initially attracted the crew’s interest due to their greed - they had hoped to tear about the derelict starship and sell its pieces for millions. When the Captain tested out the mysterious metal and saw that it turned out to be gold, his greed increased so much that he became suspicious of his crew members that were sent out to investigate the ship. Although the Captain and his crew thought they could take advantage of this metal and benefit from it, it turns out that the opposite is true. Instead, it is this mystery metal that gains its yellow-tint and subsequent gold composition through drawing its energy from them and draining the crew of their youth and strength. The latter named ‘devil-metal’ demonstrates the hastiness of the greed of man, and how it led them to be so enraptured in greed that it blinded them of the wariness of strange objects in space, and hence led to their ultimate demise. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  Jinx Ship To The Rescue     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     Stand by for      T.R.S. Aphrodite     , butt of the Space     Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only     her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1948.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus.     Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor.     The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship      Aphrodite     loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship.     It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp.     Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the      Aphrodite's     Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the      Aphrodite     . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time.     Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought....     You know Gorman? queried Strykalski.     Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman?     The same.     Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the      Ganymede     . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively.     Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition.     The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me.     From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you.     In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the      Ganymede     because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger....     The Procyon A people? asked Cob.     So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the      Ganymede     . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this.     Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too.     Me again. The      Ganymede's     whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely.     Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the      Ganymede     broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about....     Canalopolis?     Whitley nodded.     That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball.     I begin to see what you mean, Captain.     Strike's the name, Cob.     Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the      Aphrodite's     nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either.     Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek      Ganymede     . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her.     Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space?     Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars.     Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work.     Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me.     Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class.  <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous      Aphrodite     had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall.     The      Aphrodite     rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury....     For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman.     And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy.     At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the      Aphrodite's     refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing.     Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the      Lachesis     and the      Atropos     . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the      Atropos     carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan.     Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so.     And she agreed.  <doc-sep></s>","Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Stryakalski III, AKA Strike, is charged with commanding a run-down and faulty vessel, the Aphrodite. Aphrodite was the brain-child of Harlan Hendricks, an engineer who ushered in new technology ten years back. All three of his creations failed spectacularly, resulting in death and a failed career. The Aphrodite was the only ship to survive, and she is now used for hauling mail back and forth between Venus and Mars.Strike and Cob, the Aphrodite’s only executive to last more than six months, recount Strike’s great failures and how he ended up here. He used to fly the Ganymede, but was removed after he left his position to rescue colonists who didn’t need rescuing. Strike was no longer trustworthy in Admiral Gorman’s eyes, so he banished him to the Aphrodite. The circuit that caused the initial demise of Aphrodite was sealed off. After meeting some members of his crew, Strike orders a conference for all personnel and calls in an Engineering Officer, one I.V. Hendricks. After Lieutenant Ivy Hendricks arrives--not I.V.--Strike immediately insults her by degrading the ship’s designer, Harlan Hendricks. As it turns out, Hendricks is his daughter, and she vows to prove him wrong and all those who doubted her father. Despite their initial conflict, Strike and Hendricks’ relationship soon evolves from resentment to respect. During this time, Strike’s confidence in the Aphrodite plummets as she suffers from mechanical issues. The Aphrodite starts to heat up as they get closer to the sun. The refrigeration units could not handle the heat, causing discomfort among the crew. As they get closer, a radar contact reveals that two dreadnaughts, the Lachesis and the Atropos, are doing routine patrolling. Nothing to worry about, except the Atropos had Admiral Gorman on board, hated by Strike and Hendricks.Strike and Hendricks make a joke about Gorman falling into the sun. As the temperature steadily climbs, the crew members overheat and begin fighting, resulting in a black eye. A distress signal came through from the Lachesis: the Atropos, with Gorman on board, was tumbling into the sun. The Lachesis was attempting to rescue them with an unbreakable cord, but they too were being pulled in. Hendricks had fixed the surge-circuit rheostat, the one her father designed, and claimed it could help them rescue the ships. After some tension, Strike agrees and they race down to the sun to pick up the drifting dreadnaughts. Strike puts Hendricks in charge, but soon the heat overtakes her, and she is unable to continue. Strike takes over, attaches the Aphrodite to the Lachesis with a cord, and turns on the surge-circuit. They blast themselves out of there, rescuing the two ships and Admiral Gorman at the same time. Cob and Strike are awarded Spatial Cross awards, while Hendricks is promoted to an engineering position at the Bureau of Ships. The story ends with Cob and Strike flipping through the pages of an address book until they land on Canalopolis, Mars. "
"<s>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous      Aphrodite     had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall.     The      Aphrodite     rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury....     For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman.     And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy.     At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the      Aphrodite's     refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing.     Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the      Lachesis     and the      Atropos     . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the      Atropos     carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan.     Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so.     And she agreed.  <doc-sep>Old Aphrodisiac had reached perihelion when it happened. Thethermometer stood at 135° and tempers were snapping. Cob and CeliaGraham had tangled about some minor point concerning Lover-Girl'sweight and balance. Ivy went about her work on the bridge withoutspeaking, and Strike made no attempt to brighten her sudden depression.Lieutenant Evans had punched Bayne, the Tactical Astrophysicist,in the eye for some disparaging remark about Southern Californiawomanhood. The ratings were grumbling about the food....     And then it happened.     Cob was in the radio room when Sparks pulled the flimsy from thescrambler. It was a distress signal from the      Lachesis     . The      Atropos     had burst a fission chamber and was falling into the sun.Radiation made a transfer of personnel impossible, and the      Atropos     skeeterboats didn't have the power to pull away from the looming star.The      Lachesis     had a line on the sister dreadnaught and was valiantlytrying to pull the heavy vessel to safety, but even the thunderingpower of the      Lachesis'     mighty drive wasn't enough to break Sol'sdeathgrip on the battleship.     A fleet of souped-up space-tugs was on its way from Luna and Venusport,but they could not possibly arrive on time. And it was doubtful thateven the tugs had the necessary power to drag the crippled      Atropos     away from a fiery end.     Cob snatched the flimsy from Sparks' hands and galloped for theflying-bridge. He burst in and waved the message excitedly in front ofStrykalski's face.     Have a look at this! Ye gods and little catfish! Read it!     Well, dammit, hold it still so I can! snapped Strike. He read themessage and passed it to Ivy Hendricks with a shake of his head.     She read it through and looked up exultantly. This is      it     ! This isthe chance I've been praying for, Strike!     He returned her gaze sourly. For Gorman to fall into the sun? I recallI said something of the sort myself, but there are other men on thoseships. And, if I know Captain Varni on the      Lachesis     , he won't let gothat line even if he fries himself.     Ivy's eyes snapped angrily. That's not what I meant, and you know it!I mean this! She touched the red-sealed surge-circuit rheostat.     That's very nice, Lieutenant, commented Cob drily. And I know thatyou've been very busy adjusting that gismo. But I seem to recall thatthe last time that circuit was uncorked everyone aboard became part ofthe woodwork ... very messily, too.     Let me understand you, Ivy, said Strike in a flat voice. What youare suggesting is that I risk my ship and the lives of all of us tryingto pull old Gorman's fat out of the fire with a drive that's blownskyhigh three times out of three. Very neat.     There were tears bright in Ivy Hendricks' eyes and she soundeddesperate. But we can save those ships! We can, I      know     we can! Myfather designed this ship! I know every rivet of her! Those idiots offCallisto didn't know what they were doing. These ships needed speciallytrained men. Father told them that! And I'm trained! I can take her inand save those ships! Her expression turned to one of disgust. Or areyou afraid?     Frankly, Ivy, I haven't enough sense to be afraid. But are you socertain that we can pull this off? If I make a mistake this time ...it'll be the last. For all of us.     We can do it, said Ivy Hendricks simply.     Strike turned to Cob. What do you say, Cob? Shall we make it hotter inhere?     Whitley shrugged. If you say so, Strike. It's good enough for me.     Celia Graham left the bridge shaking her head. We'll all be dead soon.And me so young and pretty.     Strike turned to the squawk-box. Evans!     Evans here, came the reply.     Have Sparks get a DF fix on the      Atropos     and hold it. We'll home ontheir carrier wave. They're in trouble and we're going after them. Plotthe course.     Yes, Captain.     Strike turned to Cob. Have the gun-crews stand by to relieve theblack-gang in the tube rooms. It's going to get hotter than the hingesof hell down there and we'll have to shorten shifts.     Yes, sir! Cob saluted and was gone.     Strike returned to the squawk-box. Radar!     Graham here, replied Celia from her station.     Get a radar fix on the      Lachesis     and hold it. Send your dope up toEvans and tell him to send us a range estimate.     Yes, Captain, the girl replied crisply.     Gun deck!     Gun deck here, sir, came a feminine voice.     Have number two starboard torpedo tube loaded with a fish and a spoolof cable. Be ready to let fly on short notice ... any range.     Yes, sir! The girl switched off.     And now you, Miss Hendricks.     Yes, Captain? Her voice was low.     Take over Control ... and Ivy....     Yes?     Don't kill us off. He smiled down at her.     She nodded silently and took her place at the control panel. Smoothlyshe turned old Aphrodisiac's nose sunward....  <doc-sep>The other officers of the      T.R.S. Aphrodite     were in conference withthe Captain when Cob and the girl at his side reached the flyingbridge. She was tall and dark-haired with regular features and paleblue eyes. She wore a service jumper with two silver stripes on theshoulder-straps, and even the shapeless garment could not hide theobvious trimness of her figure.     Strike's back was toward the bulkhead, and he was addressing the others.     ... and that's about the story. We are to jet within 28,000,000 milesof Sol. Orbit is trans-Mercurian hyperbolic. With Mars in opposition,we have to make a perihelion run and it won't be pleasant. But I'mcertain this old boiler can take it. I understand the old boy whodesigned her wasn't as incompetent as they say. But Space Regs arespecific about mail runs. This is important to you, Evans. Yourastrogation has to be accurate to within twenty-five miles plus orminus the shortest route. And there'll be no breaking orbit. Now becertain that the refrigeration units are checked, Mister Wilkins,especially in the hydroponic cells. Pure air is going to be important.     That's about all there is to tell you. As soon as our ratherleisurely E/O gets here, we can jet with Aunt Nelly's postcard. Henodded. That's the story. Lift ship in.... He glanced at his wristchronograph, ... in an hour and five.     The officers filed out and Cob Whitley stuck his head into the room.Captain?     Come in, Cob. Strike's dark brows knit at the sight of the uniformedgirl in the doorway.     Cob's face was sober, but hidden amusement was kindling behind hiseyes. Captain, may I present Lieutenant Hendricks? Lieutenant      I-vy     Hendricks?     Strike looked blankly at the girl.     Our new E/O, Captain, prompted Whitley.     Uh ... welcome aboard, Miss Hendricks, was all the Captain could findto say.     The girl's eyes were cold and unfriendly. Thank you, Captain. Hervoice was like cracked ice tinkling in a glass. If I may have yourpermission to inspect the drives, Captain, I      may     be able toconvince you that the designer of this vessel was not ... as you seemto think ... a senile incompetent.     Strike was perplexed, and he showed it. Why, certainly ... uh ...Miss ... but why should you be so....     The girl's voice was even colder than before as she said, HarlanHendricks, Captain, is my father.  <doc-sep></s>","Lieutenant Ivy Hendricks is the daughter of Harlan Hendricks, a formerly respected engineer. He created the surge-circuit, an innovation in interstellar astrogation, and he was awarded a Legion of Merit. He designed three famous ships: the Artemis, the Andromeda, and the Aphrodite, the prototype. Despite being hailed as the latest and greatest in technology, all three ships either exploded or failed. According to Lieutenant Ivy Hendricks, their failures were due to the lack of education on board. She claimed that her father asked for the crew members to be trained in surge-circuit technology, so they could use it properly and correctly. That wish was not granted and after all three ships failed, his reputation and career were doomed. Admiral Gorman pulled the plug on his career and therefore became the target of all Lieutenant Hendricks’ hate. With a bone to pick, Lieutenant Hendricks, a knowledgeable engineer herself, comes aboard the Aphrodite to serve as her engineer and occasional pilot. She wants to prove to the world that her father’s creation was genius and deserving of praise. Although they started off on the wrong foot, Lieutenant Hendricks and Strike, her commander, develop a friendship and appreciation for each other. They bond over their deep hatred of Admiral Gorman and the joy of piloting a ship. She soon proves herself to Strike, and he begins to trust her. Their relationship walks the fine line between friendship and romance. As the Aphrodite is attempting to rescue the fallen dreadnaughts, Lieutenant Hendricks comes up with the solution. Due to her constant tinkering on the ship, she had fixed the surge-circuit rheostat and made it ready to use. Initially, no one trusts her, seeing as the last time it was used people died. But Strike’s trust in her is strong and true, so he approves the use of the surge-circuit. Hendricks pilots the ship, but soon becomes too overheated and comes close to fainting. Strike takes over piloting and eventually activates the surge-circuit. It works and they are able to rescue the two ships, one of which had Admiral Gorman, her sworn enemy, onboard. Lieutenant Hendricks receives a major promotion; she is now an engineer at the Bureau of Ships. She proved them wrong, and restored her father’s legacy and good name. The story ends with their romance left in the air, but Hendricks has much to be proud of. "
"<s>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous      Aphrodite     had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall.     The      Aphrodite     rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury....     For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman.     And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy.     At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the      Aphrodite's     refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing.     Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the      Lachesis     and the      Atropos     . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the      Atropos     carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan.     Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so.     And she agreed.  <doc-sep>  Jinx Ship To The Rescue     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     Stand by for      T.R.S. Aphrodite     , butt of the Space     Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only     her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1948.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus.     Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor.     The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship      Aphrodite     loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship.     It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp.     Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the      Aphrodite's     Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the      Aphrodite     . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time.     Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought....     You know Gorman? queried Strykalski.     Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman?     The same.     Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the      Ganymede     . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively.     Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition.     The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me.     From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you.     In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the      Ganymede     because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger....     The Procyon A people? asked Cob.     So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the      Ganymede     . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this.     Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too.     Me again. The      Ganymede's     whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely.     Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the      Ganymede     broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about....     Canalopolis?     Whitley nodded.     That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball.     I begin to see what you mean, Captain.     Strike's the name, Cob.     Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the      Aphrodite's     nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either.     Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek      Ganymede     . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her.     Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space?     Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars.     Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work.     Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me.     Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class.  <doc-sep>And she was not an inspiring sight. The fantastically misnamed      Aphrodite     was a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built some tenyears back in the period immediately preceding the Ionian SubjugationIncident. She had been designed primarily for atomics, with asurge-circuit set-up for interstellar flight. At least that was theplanner's view. In those days, interstellar astrogation was in itsformative stage, and at the time of the      Aphrodite's     launching thesurge-circuit was hailed as the very latest in space drives.     Her designer, Harlan Hendricks, had been awarded a Legion of Meritfor her, and every silver-braided admiral in the Fleet had dreamedof hoisting his flag on one of her class. There had been three. The      Artemis     , the      Andromeda     , and the prototype ... old Aphrodisiac. Thethree vessels had gone into action off Callisto after the Phobos Raidhad set off hostilities between the Ionians and the Solarian Combine.     All three were miserable failures.     The eager officers commanding the three monitors had found the circuittoo appealing to their hot little hands. They used it ... in some way,wrongly.     The      Artemis     exploded. The      Andromeda     vanished in the generaldirection of Coma Berenices glowing white hot from the heat of aruptured fission chamber and spewing gamma rays in all directions.And the      Aphrodite's     starboard tubes blew, causing her to spend herstore of vicious energy spinning like a Fourth of July pinwheel under20 gravities until all her interior fittings ... including crew were atangled, pulpy mess within her pressure hull.     The      Aphrodite     was refitted for space. And because it was an integralpart of her design, the circuit was rebuilt ... and sealed. She becamea workhorse, growing more cantankerous with each passing year. Shecarried personnel.... She trucked ores. She ferried skeeterboats andtanked rocket fuel. Now, she would carry the mail. She would lift fromVenusport and jet to Canalopolis, Mars, without delay or variation.Regulations, tradition and Admiral Gorman of the Inner Planet Fleetrequired it. And it was now up to David Farragut Strykalski III to seeto it that she did....     The Officer of the Deck, a trim blonde girl in spotless greys salutedsmartly as Strike and Cob stepped through the valve.     Strike felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew, of course, that at least athird of the personnel on board non-combat vessels of the Inner PlanetFleet was female, but he had never actually had women on board a shipof his own, and he felt quite certain that he preferred them elsewhere.     Cob sensed his discomfort. That was Celia Graham, Strike. Ensign.Radar Officer. She's good, too.     Strike shook his head. Don't like women in space. They make meuncomfortable.     Cob shrugged. Celia's the only officer. But about a quarter of ourratings are women. He grinned maliciously. Equal rights, you know.     No doubt, commented the other sourly. Is that why they namedthis ... ship 'Aphrodite'?     Whitley saw fit to consider the question rhetorical and remained silent.     Strike lowered his head to clear the arch of the flying-bridgebulkhead. Cob followed. He trailed his Captain through a jungleof chrome piping to the main control panels. Strike sank into anacceleration chair in front of the red DANGER seal on the surge-circuitrheostat.     Looks like a drug-store fountain, doesn't it? commented Cob.     Strykalski nodded sadly, thinking of the padded smoothness of the      Ganymede's     flying-bridge. But she's home to us, anyway.     The thick Venusian fog had closed in around the top levels of the ship,hugging the ports and cutting off all view of the field outside. Strikereached for the squawk-box control.     Now hear this. All officer personnel will assemble in the flyingbridge at 600 hours for Captain's briefing. Officer of the Deck willrecall any enlisted personnel now on liberty....     Whitley was on his feet, all the slackness gone from his manner.Orders, Captain?     We can't do anything until the new Engineering Officer gets here.They're sending someone down from the      Antigone     , and I expect him by600 hours. In the meantime you'll take over his part of the work. Seeto it that we are fueled and ready to lift ship by 602. Base will startloading the mail at 599:30. That's about all.     Yes, sir. Whitley saluted and turned to go. At the bulkhead, hepaused. Captain, he asked, Who is the new E/O to be?     Strike stretched his long legs out on the steel deck. A LieutenantHendricks, I. V. Hendricks, is what the orders say.     Cob thought hard for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. I. V.Hendricks. He shook his head. Don't know him.  <doc-sep></s>","Strike is a member of a famous, well-behaved, and well-trained service family. His father and grandfather served in World War II and the Atomic War, respectively. Both earned medals for their heroic service. Strike, however, did not follow in his family’s footsteps. 	With a tendency to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, Strike often offended those around him and garnered a negative reputation. After being put in charge of the Ganymede, he soon lost his position after abandoning his station to rescue colonists who were not in danger. As well, he accused a Martian Ambassador of being a spy at a respectable ball. Admiral Gorman soon demoted him, and he became the commander of the Aphrodite. 	At first, Strike was not a fan. He sees her as ugly, fat, and cantankerous. He misses the Ganymede, a shiny and new rocketship, and views the Aphrodite as less-than. 	Within the first week of flying her, the Aphrodite had a burned steering tube, which made it necessary to go into free-fall as the damage control party made repairs. Strike’s faith in Lover-Girl continued to plummet. 	However, after Lieutenant Hendricks, the resident engineer, got her hands on the Aphrodite, Strike’s opinion started to change. Her knowledge of the ship, engineering, and piloting helped him gain confidence in both her abilities and those of Aphrodite.Near the end of the story, the Aphrodite is tasked with rescuing two ships that are falling into the sun. Previously Lieutenant Hendricks had fixed up the surge-circuit rheostat, and so she offered it up as the only solution. Strike agrees to try it, which shows his faith and trust in the Aphrodite. Luckily, all things go to plan, and the Aphrodite, with Strike piloting, is able to save the two ships and Admiral Gorman. After Strike won a medal himself, finally following in the family footsteps, he is offered his old position back on the Ganymede. He refuses, and instead returns to old Lover-Girl. He has grown fond of her over the course of their adventure, and they develop a partnership. "
"<s>  Jinx Ship To The Rescue     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     Stand by for      T.R.S. Aphrodite     , butt of the Space     Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only     her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1948.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus.     Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor.     The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship      Aphrodite     loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship.     It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp.     Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the      Aphrodite's     Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the      Aphrodite     . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time.     Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought....     You know Gorman? queried Strykalski.     Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman?     The same.     Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the      Ganymede     . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively.     Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition.     The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me.     From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you.     In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the      Ganymede     because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger....     The Procyon A people? asked Cob.     So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the      Ganymede     . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this.     Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too.     Me again. The      Ganymede's     whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely.     Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the      Ganymede     broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about....     Canalopolis?     Whitley nodded.     That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball.     I begin to see what you mean, Captain.     Strike's the name, Cob.     Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the      Aphrodite's     nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either.     Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek      Ganymede     . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her.     Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space?     Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars.     Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work.     Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me.     Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class.  <doc-sep>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous      Aphrodite     had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall.     The      Aphrodite     rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury....     For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman.     And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy.     At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the      Aphrodite's     refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing.     Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the      Lachesis     and the      Atropos     . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the      Atropos     carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan.     Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so.     And she agreed.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","Jinx Ship to the Rescue by Alfred Coppel, Jr. takes place in space, but more specifically in the Aphrodite. 	It starts in the muddy Venusport Base on Venus. Venusport is famous for its warm, slimy, and green rain that falls for 480 hours of every day. A fog rolls in and degrades visibility. 	Despite starting on Venusport Base, the characters actually spend most of their time onboard the Aphrodite, a Tellurian Rocket Ship. The Aphrodite had a surge-circuit monitor of twenty guns built into her frame. She was bulky, fat, and ugly, and occasionally had some technical and mechanical struggles as well. 	Although her frame may not be appealing, she soon becomes victorious as she gains the trust of Strike and other members of his crew and saves two fallen dreadnaughts. With her surge-circuit rheostat rebuilt, the Aphrodite is finally able to accomplish what she was always meant to. "
"<s>A week in space had convinced Strike that he commanded a jinx ship.Jetting sunward from Venus, the cantankerous      Aphrodite     had burned asteering tube through, and it had been necessary to go into free-fallwhile Jenkins, the Assistant E/O, and a damage control party effectedrepairs. When the power was again applied, Old Aphrodisiac was runningten hours behind schedule, and Strike and Evans, the AstrogationOfficer, were sweating out the unforeseen changes introduced into theorbital calculations by the time spent in free-fall.     The      Aphrodite     rumbled on toward the orbit of Mercury....     For all the tension between the occupants of the flying-bridge, Strikeand Ivy Hendricks worked well together. And after a second week inspace, a reluctant admiration was replacing the resentment betweenthem. Ivy spent whatever time she could spare tinkering with herfather's pet surge-circuit and Strike began to realize that there waslittle she did not know about spaceship engineering. Then, too, Ivyspent a lot of time at the controls, and Strike was forced to admitthat he had never seen a finer job of piloting done by man or woman.     And finally, Ivy hated old Brass-bottom Gorman even more than Strikedid. She felt that Gorman had ruined her father's career, and she wasdedicating her life to proving her father right and Brass-bottom wrong.There's nothing in the cosmos to nurture friendship like a common enemy.     At 30,000,000 miles from the sun, the      Aphrodite's     refrigerationunits could no longer keep the interior of the ship at a comfortabletemperature. The thermometer stood at 102°F, the very metal ofthe ship's fittings hot to the touch. Uniforms were discarded,insignia of rank vanished. The men dressed in fiberglass shorts andspaceboots, sweat making their naked bodies gleam like copper under thesodium-vapor lights. The women in the crew added only light blouses totheir shorts ... and suffered from extra clothing.     Strike was in the observation blister forward, when Ensign Grahamcalled to say that she had picked up a radar contact sunward. TheIFF showed the pips to be the      Lachesis     and the      Atropos     . The twodreadnaughts were engaged in coronary research patrol ... a purelyroutine business. But the thing that made Strike curse under his breathwas Celia Graham's notation that the      Atropos     carried none other thanSpace Admiral Horatio Gorman, Cominch Inplan.     Strike thought it a pity that old Brass-bottom couldn't fall intoHell's hottest pit ... and he told Ivy so.     And she agreed.  <doc-sep>  Jinx Ship To The Rescue     By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.     Stand by for      T.R.S. Aphrodite     , butt of the Space     Navy. She's got something terrific in her guts and only     her ice-cold lady engineer can coax it out of her!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1948.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of theTellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in theviscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with ajaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusportfor two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now amiasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling acrossthe mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility wasdropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to findthe way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus.     Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealthof feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and togetherthey sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor.     The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship      Aphrodite     loomedunhappily into the thick air above the two men as they reached theventral valve. Strike raised reluctant eyes to the sloping flank of thefat spaceship.     It looks, he commented bitterly, like a pregnant carp.     Senior Lieutenant Coburn Whitley—Cob to his friends—nodded inagreement. That's our Lover-Girl ... old Aphrodisiac herself. The shipwith the poison personality. Cob was the      Aphrodite's     Executive,and he had been with her a full year ... which was a record for Execson the      Aphrodite     . She generally sent them Earthside with nervousbreakdowns in half that time.     Tell me, Captain, continued Cob curiously, how does it happenthat you of all people happened to draw this tub for a command? Ithought....     You know Gorman? queried Strykalski.     Cob nodded. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Old Brass-bottom Gorman?     The same.     Well, Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, I know Gorman'sa prize stinker ... but you were in command of the      Ganymede     . And,after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How comethis? He indicated the monitor expressively.     Strike sighed. Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing withme and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that youwouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharpoperators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy withtradition.     The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polishimmigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and CongressionalMedal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in theabortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a UnitedNations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...me.     From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But somethinghappened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest ofthem. Call it luck or temperament or what have you.     In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying thewrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take toomuch on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the      Ganymede     because I left my station where I was supposed to be runningsection-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were indanger....     The Procyon A people? asked Cob.     So you've heard about it. Strike shook his head sadly. My tacticalastrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left myroutine post and loaded up on colonists. He shrugged. Wrong guess. Nonova. I made an ass of myself and lost the      Ganymede     . Gorman gave itto his former aide. I got this.     Cob coughed slightly. I heard something about Ley City, too.     Me again. The      Ganymede's     whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig.We celebrated a bit too freely.     Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. That was the nightafter the      Ganymede     broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run,wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about....     Canalopolis?     Whitley nodded.     That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a TellurianEmbassy Ball.     I begin to see what you mean, Captain.     Strike's the name, Cob.     Whitley's smile was expansive. Strike, I think you're going to likeour old tin pot here. He patted the      Aphrodite's     nether bellyaffectionately. She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely tomeet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either.     Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek      Ganymede     . She'llcarry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her.     Cob shrugged philosophically. Better than tanking that stinking rocketfuel, anyway. Deep space?     Strike shook his head. Venus-Mars.     Cob scratched his chin speculatively. Perihelion run. Hot work.     Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior.A surge-circuit monitor, so help me.     Cob nodded agreement. The last of her class.  <doc-sep>Lashed together with a length of unbreakable beryllium steel cable,the      Lachesis     and the      Atropos     fell helplessly toward the sun. Thefrantic flame that lashed out from the      Lachesis'     tube was fading, herfission chambers fusing under the terrific heat of splitting atoms.Still she tried. She could not desert her sister ship, nor could shesave her. Already the two ships had fallen to within 18,000,000 milesof the sun's terrifying atmosphere of glowing gases. The prominencesthat spouted spaceward seemed like great fiery tentacles reaching forthe trapped men on board the warships. The atmospheric guiding fins,the gun-turrets and other protuberances on both ships were beginningto melt under the fierce radiance. Only the huge refrigeration plantson the vessels made life within them possible. And, even so, men weredying.     Swiftly, the fat, ungainly shape of old Aphrodisiac drew near. In herflying-bridge, Strike and Ivy Hendricks watched the stricken ships inthe darkened viewport.     The temperature stood at 140° and the air was bitter with the smellof hot metal. Ivy's blouse clung to her body, soaked through withperspiration. Sweat ran from her hair into her eyes and she gaspedfor breath in the oven hot compartment. Strike watched her withapprehension.     Carefully, Ivy circled the two warships. From the starboard tube onthe gun-deck, a homing rocket leapt toward the      Atropos     . It plungedstraight and true, spilling cable as it flew. It slammed up againstthe hull, and stuck there, fast to the battleship's flank. Quickly,a robocrane drew it within the ship and the cable was made secure.Like cosmic replicas of the ancient South American bolas, the threespacecraft whirled in space ... and all three began that sunward plungetogether.        They were diving into the sun.        The heat in the      Aphrodite's     bridge was unbearable. The thermometershowed 145° and it seemed to Strike that Hell must be cool bycomparison.     Ivy fought her reeling senses and the bucking ship as the slack cameout of the cable. Blackness was flickering at the edges of her fieldof vision. She could scarcely lift her hand to the red-sealed circuitrheostat. Shudderingly, she made the effort ... and failed. Conscious,but too spent to move, she collapsed over the blistering hot instrumentpanel.           Ivy!      Strike was beside her, cradling her head in his arm.     I ... I ... can't make it ... Strike. You'll ... have to run ... theshow ... after ... all.     Strike laid her gently in an acceleration chair and turned toward thecontrol panel. His head was throbbing painfully as he broke the seal onthe surge-circuit.     Slowly he turned the rheostat. Relays chattered. From deep withinold Lover-Girl's vitals came a low whine. He fed more power into thecircuit. Cadmium rods slipped into lead sheaths decks below in thetube-rooms. The whining rose in pitch. The spinning of the ships inspace slowed. Stopped. With painful deliberation, they swung into line.     More power. The whine changed to a shriek. A banshee wail.     Cob's voice came through the squawk-box, soberly. Strike, Celia'sfainted down here. We can't take much more of this heat.     We're trying, Cob! shouted Strike over the whine of the circuit. Thegauges showed the accumulators full.       Now!      He spun the rheostat tothe stops, and black space burst over his brain....     The last thing he remembered was a voice. It sounded like Bayne's. Andit was shouting. We're moving 'em! We're pulling away! We're.... Andthat was all.     The space-tug      Scylla     found them.     The three ships ...      Atropos     ,      Lachesis     , and old Aphrodisiac ...lashed together and drifting in space. Every man and woman aboard outcold from the acceleration, and      Aphrodite's     tanks bone dry. But theywere a safe 80,000,000 miles from Sol....  <doc-sep></s>","Strike is a member of an esteemed service family on Venus; seven generations of well-behaved and well-trained operators. Unfortunately, Strike struggles to carry on the family tradition, and is known for misspeaking and offending those around him. By trusting his gut, he wound up failing his higher-ups and crew several times. All this culminated in an eventual mistrust of Strike, which led to him being charged with the Aphrodite. 	His deep hatred of Space Admiral Gordon is passionate, but not without reason. Gordon is the one who demoted him to the Aphrodite. At the start, Strike is checking out his new vessel and notes how ugly the ship is. After examining the ship and it’s crew, it is revealed that Strike is uncomfortable around women and believes they don’t belong on a spaceship. 	In order to start flying, he calls in an expert engineer to come aboard and travel with them. Thinking I.V. Hendricks is a man, he is excited to have them onboard. But when Ivy Hendricks shows up, a female engineer and the daughter of the Aphrodite’s creator, his world is soon turned upside down. 	His initial negative reaction to her is soon displaced by begrudging appreciation and eventually trust and friendship. Hendricks proves his previous theories about women wrong, and Strike is forced to accept that perhaps women do belong on a spaceship. She especially impresses him with her total knowledge of spaceship engineering and the Aphrodite in general. And it helped that she hated Admiral Gorman just as much as Strike, if not more. 	While flying by the sun to deliver mail, the Aphrodite receives a distress call from two ships: the Lachesis and the Atropos, the latter of which carried Admiral Gorman onboard. After the Aphrodite reached orbit, the Lachesis reached out and reported the Atropos was falling into the sun, due to a burst chamber. They couldn’t move those onboard over thanks to all the radiation, so the Lachesis was attempting to pull the Atropos back using an unbreakable cord. But it wasn’t enough. 	Since Ivy Hendricks had fixed the surge-circuit rheostat--the feature that crashed the original Aphrodite--, they were able to save the Lachesis and the Atropos and regain some of their dignity and former glory. 	Strike is awarded the Spatial Cross, as well as Cob, his friend and longtime executive of the Aphrodite. Strike was asked to return to the Ganymede, a beautiful sleek ship, but allegedly said the wrong thing to Gorman, and was instead sent back to the Aphrodite. Cob believes he did it on purpose, as Strike had grown quite fond of Lover-Girl. 	Ivy has gone to the Bureau of Ships to engineer vessels, a great upgrade from her previous job. Cob pressures Strike to reach out to her, but he refuses. However, it ends on a hopeful note, with the potential for romance between Strike and Hendricks, and even more adventures on the clunky Aphrodite. "
"<s>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth.     They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought.     And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled.     But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the      xopa     fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse.     And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof      xopa     -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings....     Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate.   <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached.     For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar.     In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall.     Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place.     Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down.     And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head.     Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet.     This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun.     Why. Are they really dangerous?     They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway.     Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently.     Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn      their     crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same.     So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously.     They      might     do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it.     The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side.  <doc-sep></s>","Syme Rector is the most-wanted raider in the Triplanet Patrol system and wants access to the ancient Martian city of Kal-Jmar so that he can steal the priceless objects located there. The city has been abandoned for thousands of years, but no human has been able to enter it. Rector crashed his ship in the Mare Cimmerium and left a false trail for authorities to divert them from following him to Lillis, where he plans to obtain a spaceman’s identity card. This card will enable him to ship out on a freighter flight after he has obtained his stolen goods. Rector follows a young patrolman until he catches him unaware on the observation deck of the Founders’ Tower. Rector shoots him in the chest, steals his wallet, and throws his body over the parapet. However, a hook on the patrolman’s uniform catches Rector, pulling Rector over the parapet. He manages to unhook himself, and just as he estimates he can hold on one minute longer, a man comes and pulls him up. The man is Harold Tate, and he invites Rector to have a drink with him. As they get drunk, Tate confides to Rector that he needs a guide to take him to Kal-Jmar; he has discovered a way to enter the dome surrounding the city. The two men set out on their journey and follow a gully they reach. While they are in the lower part, Tate sees something overhead, and a boulder crashes down just to the left of their sand car. A horde of Martians surrounds them and forces the two men to go with them. The leader reveals that the Martians are telepathic and have no need for a spoken language. The Martians want nothing to do with the humans because there is nothing to gain from the humans. The leader tells the men the history of the two species of Martians but says they will kill the men.When the leader pulls his gun on Tate, Rector launches himself against the leader and wrestles away his gun. He shoots the leader and the other Martians as he dodges their shots. The two men then begin walking toward Kal-Jmar and reach the city. Tate uses his device to create a hole in the dome but realizes it isn’t strong enough. Then he thinks of using it where a door would have been, and it works. Rector shoots Tate, and just before he dies, Tate warns him, “You’ll be--sorry.” Rector takes the device and enters the city, noting all the treasures he can steal. He realizes he is hungry and takes two food tablets, but they don’t satisfy him. Then a lifelike robot that is a feeding machine enters and approaches Rector. Rector is startled and opens his mouth, and the robot shoots a feeding tube into Rector’s throat and pours xopa juice into him. The juice is poisonous to humans, and Rector dies immediately. The doorway to Kal-Jmar closes."
"<s>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth.     They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought.     And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled.     But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the      xopa     fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse.     And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof      xopa     -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings....     Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate.   <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached.     For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar.     In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall.     Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place.     Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down.     And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head.     Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet.     This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun.     Why. Are they really dangerous?     They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway.     Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently.     Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn      their     crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same.     So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously.     They      might     do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it.     The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side.  <doc-sep>They started off down the canyon, Syme urging the slighter man toa fast clip, even though his leg was already stiffening. When theyfinally reached a climbable spot, Syme was limping badly and Tate wasobviously exhausted.     They clambered wearily out onto the level sands again just as thesmall, blazing sun was setting. Luck, grunted Syme. Our only chanceof getting near the city is at night. He peered around, shading hiseyes from the sun's glare with a gauntleted hand. See that?     Following his pointing finger, Tate saw a faint, ephemeral arc showingabove a line of low hills in the distance. Kal-Jmar, said Syme.     Tate brightened a little. His body was too filled with fatigue for hismind to do any work on the problem that was baffling him, and so itreceded into the back of his mind.     Kal-Jmar, whispered Syme again.     There was no twilight. The sun dropped abruptly behind the low horizon,and darkness fell, sudden and absolute. Syme picked up the extra oxygentank and the suitcase, checked his direction by a wrist compass, andstarted toward the hills. Tate rose wearily to his feet and followedagain.     Two hours later, Kal-Jmar stood before them. They had wormed theirway past the sentry posts, doing most of the last two hundred meterson all fours. With skill and luck, and with Syme's fierce, burningdetermination, they had managed to escape detection—and there theywere. Journey's end.     Tate stared up at the shining, starlight towers in speechlessadmiration. If the people who had built this city had been decadent,still their architecture was magnificent. The city was a rhapsody madesolid. There was a sense of decay about it, he thought, but it was thedecay of supreme beauty, caught at the very verge of dissolution andpreserved for all eternity.     Well? demanded Syme.     Tate started, shaken out of his dream. He looked down at the blacksuitcase, a little wonderingly, and then pulled it to him and opened it.     Inside, carefully wrapped in shock-absorbing tissue, was a fragilecontrivance of many tubes and wires, and a tiny parabolic mirror. Ithad a brand new Elecorp 210 volt battery, and it needed every volt ofthat tremendous power. Tate made the connections, his hands tremblingslightly, and set it up on a telescoping tripod. Syme watched himclosely, his big body tensed with expectation.     The field was before them, shimmering faintly in the starlight. Itlooked unsubstantial as the stuff of dreams, but both men knew that nopower man possessed, unless it was the thing Tate held, could penetratethat screen.     Tate set the mechanism up close to the field, aimed it very delicately,and closed a minute switch. After a long second, he opened it again.     Nothing happened.     The screen was still there, as unsubstantial and as solid as ever.There was no change.  <doc-sep></s>","The setting of the story is on Mars. It begins in the city of Lillis, which is covered with a translucent steelite dome and is guarded by the Triplanet Patrol. One outstanding feature of the city is its Founders’ Tower, which is the tallest building in Lillis. On the top level, there is an observation deck that looks out over the city. Outside the city is an area called the Mare Cimmerium. The planet has red dust and supports some life, specifically lichens and tumble-grass. It has mountains, canyons, gullies, and deserts.The ancient city of Kal-Jmar features prominently in the story. It is an ancient city of the Martian race that was very advanced but is now abandoned. There are machines, records, and other objects left behind, and all are perfectly preserved inside a bubble-like dome that is formed by a force field. Humans have tried to enter the dome using explosives, diamond drills, and even tunnels under the city, but nothing they have tried has penetrated the dome. When Mars was first being conquered, humans tried to get into the city, but their efforts resulted in bloody battles with the current Martians, so eventually, the Mars Protectorate forbade any Earthmen from going near Kal-Jmar. The city has elaborate architecture and features a pair of twin towers. When Rector enters the city, he notices there is no dust, and the air is breathable. Doors open and close automatically. The room Rector enters has platinum ornaments set in the walls and the furniture. As Tate and Rector travel toward Kal-Jmar in their sand car outside of Lillis, they note that Mars has a deceptively low horizon. The surface contains a series of dunes, channels, and gullies that they have to cross. The gully they follow is extremely deep and steep, and from the bottom, they can only see a small section of the sky. When the Martians take Tate and Rector to their cavern, it is approximately nine kilometers below the gully they were in. There is a sense of moisture in the tunnel they take to the Martians’ cavern. In the cavern, the walls are covered with a phosphorescent glowing fungus, and there is air, although not enough for the humans to use. Some of the Martians eat the fungus. "
"<s>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached.     For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar.     In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall.     Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place.     Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down.     And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head.     Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet.     This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun.     Why. Are they really dangerous?     They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway.     Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently.     Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn      their     crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same.     So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously.     They      might     do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it.     The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side.  <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting.     I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand.     You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly.     That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it.     The man sighed. I need a drink.      You     need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat?     Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now.     They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning.     And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of      culcha     , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe      culcha     , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone.     He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat.     Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well?     Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof      culcha     inside him.     I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate.     Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar?     Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big.  <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth.     They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought.     And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled.     But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the      xopa     fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse.     And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof      xopa     -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings....     Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate.   <doc-sep></s>","Harold Tate is a physicist who has developed a way to create an opening in the force field dome covering the ancient city of Kal-Jmar. Other humans have tried to enter, but none have succeeded. They have not been able to breach the force field, and efforts to do so led to bloody uprisings of current Martians, so the Mars Protectorate has forbidden any Earthmen to go there. Tate happens to be on the observation deck of the Founders’ Tower when Syme Rector is trying to pull himself back over the parapet after getting pulled over it by the patrolman’s body that he threw over the side. Tate invites Rector to have a drink with him, and when he is drunk, he tells Rector he trusts him because he has an honest face. Tate asks Rector to be his guide to Kal-Jmar and tells him about the device he invented. Tate sees the boulder that the Martians lob toward their sand car when they are in the gully and saves their lives by using a steering level to flip the car around and out of the main path of the boulder.When the Martians take the two men to their subterranean cavern and reveal that they can speak Terrestrial, Tate asks the leader many questions about the Martians. When the leader of the Martians starts to shoot him, Rector saves Tate by hitting the Martian, wrestling his gun away, and shooting the rest of the Martians while Tate cowers against the wall. When they reach Kal-Jmar, Tate uses his device to open the force field, but then Rector shoots him. As he is dying, Tate warns Rector that he will be sorry."
"<s>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth.     They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought.     And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled.     But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the      xopa     fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse.     And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof      xopa     -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings....     Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate.   <doc-sep>  Doorway to Kal-Jmar     By Stuart Fleming     Two men had died before Syme Rector's guns     to give him the key to the ancient city of     Kal-Jmar—a city of untold wealth, and of     robots that made desires instant commands.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The tall man loitered a moment before a garish window display, his eyesimpassive in his space-burned face, as the Lillis patrolman passed.Then he turned, burying his long chin in the folds of his sand cape,and took up the pursuit of the dark figure ahead once more.     Above, the city's multicolored lights were reflected from thetranslucent Dome—a distant, subtly distorted Lillis, through which thestars shone dimly.     Getting through that dome had been his first urgent problem, but now hehad another, and a more pressing one. It had been simple enough to passhimself off as an itinerant prospector and gain entrance to the city,after his ship had crashed in the Mare Cimmerium. But the rest wouldnot be so simple. He had to acquire a spaceman's identity card, and hehad to do it fast. It was only a matter of time until the TriplanetPatrol gave up the misleading trail he had made into the hill country,and concluded that he must have reached Lillis. After that, his onlysafety lay in shipping out on a freighter as soon as possible. He hadto get off Mars, because his trail was warm, and the Patrol thorough.     They knew, of course, that he was an outlaw—the very fact of thecrashed, illegally-armed ship would have told them that. But theydidn't know that he was Syme Rector, the most-wanted and most-fearedraider in the System. In that was his only advantage.     He walked a little faster, as his quarry turned up a side street andthen boarded a moving ramp to an upper level. He watched until theshort, wide-shouldered figure in spaceman's harness disappeared overthe top of the ramp, and then followed.     The man was waiting for him at the mouth of the ascending tunnel.     Syme looked at him casually, without a flicker of expression, andstarted to walk on, but the other stepped into his path. He was quiteyoung, Syme saw, with a fighter's shoulders under the white leather,and a hard, determined thrust to his firm jaw.     All right, the boy said quietly. What is it?     I don't understand, Syme said.     The game, the angle. You've been following me. Do you want trouble?     Why, no, Syme told him bewilderedly. I haven't been following you.I—     The boy knuckled his chin reflectively. You could be lying, he saidfinally. But maybe I've made a mistake. Then—Okay, citizen, you canclear—but don't let me catch you on my tail again.     Syme murmured something and turned away, feeling the spaceman's eyeson the small of his back until he turned the corner. At the nextstreet he took a ramp up, crossed over and came down on the other sidea block away. He waited until he saw the boy's broad figure pass theintersection, and then followed again more cautiously.     It was risky, but there was no other way. The signatures, the data,even the photograph on the card could be forged once Syme got his handson it, but the identity card itself—that oblong of dark diamondite,glowing with the tiny fires of radioactivity—that could not beimitated, and the only way to get it was to kill.     Up ahead was the Founders' Tower, the tallest building in Lillis. Theboy strode into the entrance lobby, bought a ticket for the observationplatform, and took the elevator. As soon as his car was out of sight inthe transparent tube, Syme followed. He put a half-credit slug into themachine, took the punctured slip of plastic that came out. The ticketwent into a scanning slot in the wall of the car, and the elevatorwhisked him up.  <doc-sep>Syme looked at the man, nursing the tortured muscles of his arms. Hisrescuer was tall and thin, of indeterminate age. He had light, sandyhair, a sharp nose, and—oddly conflicting—pale, serious eyes and ahumorous wide mouth. He was still panting.     I'm not hurt, Syme said. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in hisdark, lean face. Thanks for giving me a hand.     You scared hell out of me, said the man. I heard a thud. Ithought—you'd gone over. He looked at Syme questioningly.     That was my bag, the outlaw said quickly. It slipped out of my hand,and I overbalanced myself when I grabbed for it.     The man sighed. I need a drink.      You     need a drink. Come on. Hepicked up a small black suitcase from the floor and started for theelevator, then stopped. Oh—your bag. Shouldn't we do something aboutthat?     Never mind, said Syme, taking his arm. The shock must have busted itwide open. My laundry is probably all over Lillis by now.     They got off at the amusement level, three tiers down, and found acafe around the corner. Syme wasn't worried about the man he had justkilled. He had heard no second thud, so the body must have stayed onthe first outcropping of the tower it struck. It probably wouldn't befound until morning.     And he had the wallet. When he paid for the first round of      culcha     , hetook it out and stole a glance at the identification card inside. Thereit was—his ticket to freedom. He began feeling expansive, and evenfriendly toward the slender, mouse-like man across the table. It wasthe      culcha     , of course. He knew it, and didn't care. In the morninghe'd find a freighter berth—in as big a spaceport as Lillis, therewere always jobs open. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy himself, andit was safer to be seen with a companion than to be alone.     He listened lazily to what the other was saying, leaning his tall,graceful body back into the softly-cushioned seat.     Lissen, said Harold Tate. He leaned forward on one elbow, slipped,caught himself, and looked at the elbow reproachfully. Lissen, hesaid again, I trust you, Jones. You're obvi-obviously an adventurer,but you have an honest face. I can't see it very well at the moment,but I hic!—pardon—seem to recall it as an honest face. I'm going totell you something, because I need your help!—help. He paused. Ineed a guide. D'you know this part of Mars well?     Sure, said Syme absently. Out in the center of the floor, an AGplate had been turned on. Five Venusian girls were diving and twistingin its influence, propelling themselves by the motion of theirdelicately-webbed feet and trailing long gauzy streamers of synthesilkafter them. Syme watched them through narrowed lids, feeling the glowof      culcha     inside him.     I wanta go to Kal-Jmar, said Tate.     Syme snapped to attention, every nerve tingling. An indefinable sense,a hunch that had served him well before, told him that something bigwas coming—something that promised adventure and loot for Syme Rector.Why? he asked softly. Why to Kal-Jmar?     Harold Tate told him, and later, when Syme had taken him to his rooms,he showed him what was in his little black suitcase. Syme had beenright; it was big.  <doc-sep></s>","Rector carries a pistol that, when shot, is silent. This enables him to shoot the young patrolman without drawing attention to himself or making people aware that there has been a shooting. In the sand car, Rector relies on the car’s metal arm and thick wire cable to travel down into the gully. He has harpoon guns that he and Tate can use later if they need to climb back out of the gully. After Rector battles with the Martians and shoots them, he uses a tube of sealing liquid that he carries in his emergency kit to seal the tear in his suit so that he stops losing oxygen. He also uses the sealant to close the wound in his leg from the graze of one of the Benson guns the Martians fired at him. Rector and Tate use oxygen tanks and space suits in their journey to Kal-Jmar because there is not enough air for them to breathe without these items. When he is hungry, Rector takes two food tablets that he carries in his helmet."
"<s>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth.     They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought.     And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled.     But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the      xopa     fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse.     And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof      xopa     -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings....     Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate.   <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort.     Will you tell us why? Tate asked.     You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow.     Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus.     Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan.     There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere.     I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course.     He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone.     Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors.     Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes.     You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we.     And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture.     We hope to win yet, the Martian said.     Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity?     The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry.     Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian.  <doc-sep>Kal-Jmar was the riddle of the Solar System. It was the only remainingcity of the ancient Martian race—the race that, legends said, hadrisen to greater heights than any other Solar culture. The machines,the artifacts, the records of the Martians were all there, perfectlypreserved inside the city's bubble-like dome, after God knew how manythousands of years. But they couldn't be reached.     For Kal-Jmar's dome was not the thing of steelite that protectedLillis: it was a tenuous, globular field of force that defied analysisas it defied explosives and diamond drills. The field extended bothabove and below the ground, and tunneling was of no avail. No one knewwhat had happened to the Martians, whether they were the ancestors ofthe present decadent Martian race, or a different species. No one knewanything about them or about Kal-Jmar.     In the early days, when the conquest of Mars was just beginning, Earthscientists had been wild to get into the city. They had observed itfrom every angle, taken photographs of its architecture and the robotsthat still patrolled its fantastically winding streets, and then theyhad tried everything they knew to pierce the wall.     Later, however, when every unsuccessful attempt had precipitated abloody uprising of the present-day Martians—resulting in a rapiddwindling of the number of Martians—the Mars Protectorate had steppedin and forbidden any further experiments; forbidden, in fact, anyEarthman to go near the place.     Thus matter had stood for over a hundred years, until Harold Tate.Tate, a physicist, had stumbled on a field that seemed to be identicalin properties to the Kal-Jmar dome; and what is more, he had found aforce that would break it down.     And so he had made his first trip to Mars, and within twenty-fourhours, by the blindest of chances, blurted out his secret to SymeRector, the scourge of the spaceways, the man with a thousand creditson his sleek, tigerish head.     Syme's smile was not tigerish now; it was carefully, studiedly mild.For Tate was no longer drunk, and it was important that it should notoccur to him that he had been indiscreet.     This is native territory we're coming to, Harold, he said. Betterstrap on your gun.     Why. Are they really dangerous?     They're unpredictable, Syme told him. They're built differently, andthey think differently. They breathe like us, down in their cavernswhere there's air, but they also eat sand, and get their oxygen thatway.     Yes, I've heard about that, Tate said. Iron oxide—very interestingmetabolism. He got his energy pistol out of the compartment andstrapped it on absently.     Syme turned the little sand car up a gentle rise towards the tortuoushill country in the distance. Not only that, he continued. Theyeat the damndest stuff. Lichens and fungi and tumble-grass off thedeserts—all full of deadly poisons, from arsenic up the line toxopite. They seem intelligent enough—in their own way—but they nevercome near our cities and they either can't or won't learn Terrestrial.When the first colonists came here, they had to learn      their     crazylanguage. Every word of it can mean any one of a dozen differentthings, depending on the inflection you give it. I can speak it some,but not much. Nobody can. We don't think the same.     So you think they might attack us? Tate asked again, nervously.     They      might     do anything, Syme said curtly. Don't worry about it.     The hills were much closer than they had seemed, because of Mars'deceptively low horizon. In half an hour they were in the midst of awilderness of fantastically eroded dunes and channels, laboring onsliding treads up the sides of steep hills only to slither down againon the other side.  <doc-sep></s>","From the humans' perspective, the Martians are strange, unpredictable beings. They eat sand to get their oxygen, and lichens, fungi, and tumble-grass from the deserts, all of which contain substances like arsenic that are deadly poisons to humans. The humans believe the Martians cannot or will not learn their language, Terrestrial, and that they have their own language. In it, every word can have multiple meanings depending on the inflection used by the speaker. In truth, the Martians have been telepathic for several thousand years because the planet is practically airless. They are clever and only pretend not to understand Terrestrial, and they make up their complicated language to deceive the humans. Martians want no contact with humans because the Martians have nothing to gain from contact with them. They see the humans as imperialistic. They plan to kill Rector and Tate as part of their concept of justice. The Martians know that Kal-Jmar holds the secret that would make Mars have an Earthlike atmosphere within fifty years. The ancient Kal-Jmar Martians were the contemporaries of the current Martians' ancestors. When the atmosphere of Mars began thinning several thousand years earlier, the Kal-Jmar Martians sealed themselves in their dome where they died of plague and other causes, while the other Martians adapted to the change. The Martians look like they have six legs but really have four legs and two arms. Their torsos bulge because they have a huge air bladder. They look a bit like dogs but have high foreheads and lips that are not split. They are covered with patches of black and white fur; with their muscles, they can control the patches so that they are primarily black or white, depending on the temperature. They can use weapons and are armed with spears and Benson guns when they confront Rector and Tate. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN     by KEITH LAUMER     Retief knew the importance of sealed     orders—and the need to keep them that way!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief.     Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel—     Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience.     He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet.     The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results.     He passed the buff envelope across to Retief.     I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived.     Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear?     Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe?     Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour.     What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet.     When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me.  <doc-sep>Twenty minutes' walk into the desert brought Retief to a low rampartof thorn branches: the Flap-jacks' outer defensive line against Terryforays. It would be as good a place as any to wait for the move by theFlap-jacks. He sat down and eased the weight of his captive off hisback, but kept a firm thumb in place. If his analysis of the situationwas correct, a Flap-jack picket should be along before too long....     A penetrating beam of red light struck Retief in the face, blinked off.He got to his feet. The captive Flap-jack rippled its fringe in anagitated way. Retief tensed his thumb in the eye-socket.     Sit tight, he said. Don't try to do anything hasty.... His remarkswere falling on deaf ears—or no ears at all—but the thumb spoke asloudly as words.     There was a slither of sand. Another. He became aware of a ring ofpresences drawing closer.     Retief tightened his grip on the alien. He could see a dark shape now,looming up almost to his own six-three. It looked like the Flap-jackscame in all sizes.     A low rumble sounded, like a deep-throated growl. It strummed on, fadedout. Retief cocked his head, frowning.     Try it two octaves higher, he said.     Awwrrp! Sorry. Is that better? a clear voice came from the darkness.     That's fine, Retief said. I'm here to arrange a prisoner exchange.     Prisoners? But we have no prisoners.     Sure you have. Me. Is it a deal?     Ah, yes, of course. Quite equitable. What guarantees do you require?     The word of a gentleman is sufficient. Retief released the alien. Itflopped once, disappeared into the darkness.     If you'd care to accompany me to our headquarters, the voice said,we can discuss our mutual concerns in comfort.     Delighted.     Red lights blinked briefly. Retief glimpsed a gap in the thornybarrier, stepped through it. He followed dim shapes across warm sand toa low cave-like entry, faintly lit with a reddish glow.     I must apologize for the awkward design of our comfort-dome, said thevoice. Had we known we would be honored by a visit—     Think nothing of it, Retief said. We diplomats are trained to crawl.     Inside, with knees bent and head ducked under the five-foot ceiling,Retief looked around at the walls of pink-toned nacre, a floor likeburgundy-colored glass spread with silken rugs and a low table ofpolished red granite that stretched down the center of the spaciousroom, set out with silver dishes and rose-crystal drinking-tubes.      III     Let me congratulate you, the voice said.     Retief turned. An immense Flap-jack, hung with crimson trappings,rippled at his side. The voice issued from a disk strapped to its back.You fight well. I think we will find in each other worthy adversaries.     Thanks. I'm sure the test would be interesting, but I'm hoping we canavoid it.     Avoid it? Retief heard a low humming coming from the speaker in thesilence. Well, let us dine, the mighty Flap-jack said at last. Wecan resolve these matters later. I am called Hoshick of the Mosaic ofthe Two Dawns.     I'm Retief. Hoshick waited expectantly, ... of the Mountain of RedTape, Retief added.     Take place, Retief, said Hoshick. I hope you won't find our rudecouches uncomfortable. Two other large Flap-jacks came into the room,communed silently with Hoshick. Pray forgive our lack of translatingdevices, he said to Retief. Permit me to introduce my colleagues....     A small Flap-jack rippled the chamber bearing on its back a silver trayladen with aromatic food. The waiter served the four diners, filled thedrinking tubes with yellow wine. It smelled good.     I trust you'll find these dishes palatable, said Hoshick. Ourmetabolisms are much alike, I believe. Retief tried the food. It had adelicious nut-like flavor. The wine was indistinguishable from Chateaud'Yquem.     It was an unexpected pleasure to encounter your party here,said Hoshick. I confess at first we took you for an indigenousearth-grubbing form, but we were soon disabused of that notion. Heraised a tube, manipulating it deftly with his fringe tentacles. Retiefreturned the salute and drank.     Of course, Hoshick continued, as soon as we realized that you weresportsmen like ourselves, we attempted to make amends by providing abit of activity for you. We've ordered out our heavier equipment and afew trained skirmishers and soon we'll be able to give you an adequateshow. Or so I hope.     Additional skirmishers? said Retief. How many, if you don't mind myasking?     For the moment, perhaps only a few hundred. There-after ... well,I'm sure we can arrange that between us. Personally I would prefer acontest of limited scope. No nuclear or radiation-effect weapons. Sucha bore, screening the spawn for deviations. Though I confess we've comeupon some remarkably useful sports. The rangerform such as you madecaptive, for example. Simple-minded, of course, but a fantasticallykeen tracker.     Oh, by all means, Retief said. No atomics. As you pointed out,spawn-sorting is a nuisance, and then too, it's wasteful of troops.     Ah, well, they are after all expendable. But we agree: no atomics.Have you tried the ground-gwack eggs? Rather a specialty of myMosaic....     Delicious, said Retief. I wonder. Have you considered eliminatingweapons altogether?  <doc-sep></s>"," The story begins with Consul Passwyn giving an assignment in a sealed envelope to Vice-Consul Retief, who is a diplomat with the Embassy. His mission is to visit the planet of Adobe and broker a land treaty between the Terrestrial settlers and an invading species, the Jaq. Before Retief leaves, Passwyn stresses the importance of following his orders exactly as written and acknowledges that no one from the Embassy has visited Adobe before, nor do they know the characteristics of the Jaq. Retief gets a ride to Adobe on a mail carrier with the help of a veteran pilot. When the pilot discovers they are entering the planet in the midst of war, he decides to leave on a lifeboat and gives control of the skiff to Retief. Then, Retief crash lands the skiff in order to avoid being blown up by a fission missile that was tracking him on his course. He lands in the middle of an Adoban oasis and immediately encounters a Terrestrial man named Potter, who confuses him for the cousin of one of his associates, Lemuel. Potter tells Retief about his group's history with the Jaqs, whom he refers to as Flap-jacks due to their wide, flat, tentacled bodies. Along with a team of settlers including Swazey, Lemuel, and Bert, Potter has been spending his days protecting his farms against attacks by the Jaqs after they mistakenly killed one three months prior, having mistaken it for one of the native species. Potter and his team do not trust the Embassy, having heard they are sending a representative to tell them to ceded control of the oases to the Jaqs. When they discover Retief is not Lemuel's cousin, Lemuel confronts Retief, who swiftly establishes his authority by knocking him out cold. When the group senses a Jaq nearby, Retief insists on dealing with the issue by himself. He hunts down the Jaq, they wrestle, and he assumes control by pressing his thumb against the Jaq’s eye hole. The captive Jaq leads Retief to the Jaq headquarters, where he is introduced to their leader, Hoshick. Retief discovers the affability of the species and particularly their penchant for proper sportsmanship. He uses this knowledge to his advantage, and convinces Hoshick that it would be more sportsmanlike to abandon the war efforts and solve their differences through a simple wrestling match. Once again, he wins the match by squeezing his thumb against Hoshick’s eye hole, and he convinces Hoshick to agree to cede control of the entirety of the oases to the Terrestrials and his people would be gifted all of the planets’ desert areas. Upon returning to the Embassy, Retief tells Consul Passwyn the good news and then burns the envelope Passwyn had given him at the beginning of the story."
"<s>   RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN     by KEITH LAUMER     Retief knew the importance of sealed     orders—and the need to keep them that way!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief.     Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel—     Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience.     He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet.     The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results.     He passed the buff envelope across to Retief.     I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived.     Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear?     Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe?     Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour.     What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet.     When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me.  <doc-sep>Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk.     To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones.     To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.     Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly.     To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door.     To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place.     I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien.     To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered.     To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals.     To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.     To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you.     To flee before I take a cane to you!     To have a drink together—     To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away.     To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy—     The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian.     Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.     To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk.      II     There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.     Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry.     What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou.     I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder.     Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.     I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police?     Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.     Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began.     Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today.     So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief.     One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul.     Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.     Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the      ISV Terrific     , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago?     Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands—     Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped.     I'll not be a party—     You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation.     Miss Meuhl sat down.     Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands—     Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me.     All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you—     Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent.     IF! Miss Meuhl burst out.     If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour—  <doc-sep>Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough.     It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—     Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory.     Then you admit—     It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit.     Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.     I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more—     Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission.     This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself—     —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite—     Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter—     You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said.     You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped.     Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down.     Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.     Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.     Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over?  <doc-sep></s>","The Jaq are a flat, wide-bodied species with tentacles and a tender orifice at the center of their bodies where a human chest would normally be. They are led by Hoshick, who has a strong interest in mining the deserts of Adobe for a special lichen used to craft their yellow wine. This wine would then be sold to planets across the universe. The Jaq make their headquarters in the desert. In the scattered oases of Adobe, the Terrestrial settlers have built farms in the rich soil of the planet's surface. The Terrestrials refer to the Jaq as Flap-jacks due to their unique physicality. One day, a Terrestrial man mistakes a Jaq for one of Adobe's native species, and he shoots and kills it. This ignites a war between the two groups. The central Terrestrials featured in the story--Potter, Lemuel, Bert, and Swazey--require assistance from their allies on Ivory because they only have three hundred men and are unsure they can defeat the Jaq. When the Embassy sends Retief to serve as an intermediary, he discovers that the two groups have similar interests--they each only want control of their separate areas. By craftily suggesting the use of weapons is no longer fashionable, Retief neutralizes the Jaq artillery and is able to convince both groups to reach a peace treaty. And, as it turns out, the Terrestrial settlements no longer have wine, so the adjacent existence of Jaq wine fields would have a mutual benefit."
"<s>   RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN     by KEITH LAUMER     Retief knew the importance of sealed     orders—and the need to keep them that way!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief.     Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel—     Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience.     He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet.     The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results.     He passed the buff envelope across to Retief.     I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived.     Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear?     Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe?     Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour.     What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet.     When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me.  <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest?     As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons.     I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units.     My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman.     Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes.     There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms.     Oh? Curious. What forms are those?     Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints.     Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints.     Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether....     Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....?     Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles.     New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate.     It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them.     I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms?     I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe.     You don't mean...?     That's right. You and me.  <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses.     Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke.     At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots.     I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed.     They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner.     They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal.     The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily.     Someone hailed them from the space ship.     We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors.     A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship.     A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued!     No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us.     Oh, came a disappointed chorus.     He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing.     Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good?     I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.     A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved.     He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.     With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins on the planet of Ivory, where Retief meets with his superior, Consul Passwyn. This seems to be the headquarters of the CDT, a kind of intergalactic governing body concerned with diplomatic efforts. The majority of the story's action takes place on the planet of Adobe. The planet is covered with vast deserts and spotted with several oases. The oases are like jungles with hot air, dense foliage, and dwarf trees along with a variety of wildlife from lizards to insects. They used to be sea-beds and therefore have rich soil for planting. The Terrestrials settlers live and built farms there. The Jaq built their headquarters in the midst of the deserts, where they prefer to stay for their rich resource of lichen used to produce wine. When Retief crash-lands on Adobe, he meets the Terrestrials in an oasis and eventually crosses over into the desert when he goes to consult with the leader of the Jaq, Hoshick. The Jaq headquarters is a comfort-dome with red lights, granite tables, fine silverware and glassware, pink walls, and a low-lying ceiling. Retief meets with Hoshick here and convinces him to engage in a skirmish. He then fights and defeats the leader outside the headquarters in the bright sand. After securing the deal, Retief returns to Ivory to report on the success of his mission."
"<s>   RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN     by KEITH LAUMER     Retief knew the importance of sealed     orders—and the need to keep them that way!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief.     Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel—     Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience.     He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet.     The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results.     He passed the buff envelope across to Retief.     I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived.     Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear?     Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe?     Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour.     What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet.     When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me.  <doc-sep>Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up.     Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback?     Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest.     We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men.     That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base.     It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers.     Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?     Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews.     Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice?  <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest?     As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons.     I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units.     My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman.     Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes.     There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms.     Oh? Curious. What forms are those?     Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints.     Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints.     Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether....     Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....?     Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles.     New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate.     It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them.     I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms?     I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe.     You don't mean...?     That's right. You and me.  <doc-sep></s>","Wine is the essential reason the Jaq came to Adobe in the first place. Their leader, Hoshick, envisioned sourcing its vast deserts for lichen. This lichen would then be used to produce a yellow wine that could be sold to planets all around the universe. When Retief first meets Hoshick, the Jaq leader provides him with a rose-crystal drinking-tube, from which they are able to sample this wine. Retief notes that the wine tastes delicious and smells good and reminds him of Chateau d'Yquem. This detail reveals the Jaq's interest in the finer things in life, in appearing distinguished. This interest is reflected in all of the Jaq's interactions with Retief, including his ability to be coerced into hand-to-hand combat because he deems it a more modern, sportsmanlike way of resolving issues. Wine again becomes important after Retief wins the fight and gets Hoshick to agree to the terms of his proposed land treaty with the Terrestrials. After Hoshick agrees, Retief attempts to convince the Terrestrials to agree as well. After learning of the lack of wine within their settlements, Retief lets the Terrestrials sample the wine provided to him by the Jaq. Eventually, the Terrestrials agree to the arrangement as well. Therefore, the wine is also a symbol of the newfound peace between the two previously warring groups."
"<s>   RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN     by KEITH LAUMER     Retief knew the importance of sealed     orders—and the need to keep them that way!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief.     Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel—     Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience.     He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet.     The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results.     He passed the buff envelope across to Retief.     I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived.     Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear?     Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe?     Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour.     What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet.     When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me.  <doc-sep>The mail pilot, a leathery veteran with quarter-inch whiskers, spattoward a stained corner of the compartment, leaned close to the screen.     They's shootin' goin' on down there, he said. See them white puffsover the edge of the desert?     I'm supposed to be preventing the war, said Retief. It looks likeI'm a little late.     The pilot's head snapped around. War? he yelped. Nobody told me theywas a war goin' on on 'Dobe. If that's what that is, I'm gettin' out ofhere.     Hold on, said Retief. I've got to get down. They won't shoot at you.     They shore won't, sonny. I ain't givin' 'em the chance. He startedpunching keys on the console. Retief reached out, caught his wrist.     Maybe you didn't hear me. I said I've got to get down.     The pilot plunged against the restraint, swung a punch that Retiefblocked casually. Are you nuts? the pilot screeched. They's plentyshootin' goin' on fer me to see it fifty miles out.     The mail must go through, you know.     Okay! You're so dead set on gettin' killed, you take the skiff. I'lltell 'em to pick up the remains next trip.     You're a pal. I'll take your offer.     The pilot jumped to the lifeboat hatch and cycled it open. Get in.We're closin' fast. Them birds might take it into their heads to lobone this way....     Retief crawled into the narrow cockpit of the skiff, glanced over thecontrols. The pilot ducked out of sight, came back, handed Retief aheavy old-fashioned power pistol. Long as you're goin' in, might aswell take this.     Thanks. Retief shoved the pistol in his belt. I hope you're wrong.     I'll see they pick you up when the shootin's over—one way or another.     The hatch clanked shut. A moment later there was a jar as the skiffdropped away, followed by heavy buffeting in the backwash from thedeparting mail boat. Retief watched the tiny screen, hands on themanual controls. He was dropping rapidly: forty miles, thirty-nine....     A crimson blip showed on the screen, moving out.     Retief felt sweat pop out on his forehead. The red blip meant heavyradiation from a warhead. Somebody was playing around with an outlawedbut by no means unheard of fission weapon. But maybe it was just on ahigh trajectory and had no connection with the skiff....     Retief altered course to the south. The blip followed.     He checked instrument readings, gripped the controls, watching. Thiswas going to be tricky. The missile bored closer. At five miles Retiefthrew the light skiff into maximum acceleration, straight toward theoncoming bomb. Crushed back in the padded seat, he watched the screen,correcting course minutely. The proximity fuse should be set for nomore than 1000 yards.     At a combined speed of two miles per second, the skiff flashed pastthe missile, and Retief was slammed violently against the restrainingharness in the concussion of the explosion ... a mile astern, andharmless.     Then the planetary surface was rushing up with frightening speed.Retief shook his head, kicked in the emergency retro-drive. Pointsof light arced up from the planet face below. If they were ordinarychemical warheads the skiff's meteor screens should handle them. Thescreen flashed brilliant white, then went dark. The skiff flipped onits back. Smoke filled the tiny compartment. There was a series ofshocks, a final bone-shaking concussion, then stillness, broken by theping of hot metal contracting.  <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest?     As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons.     I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units.     My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman.     Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes.     There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms.     Oh? Curious. What forms are those?     Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints.     Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints.     Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether....     Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....?     Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles.     New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate.     It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them.     I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms?     I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe.     You don't mean...?     That's right. You and me.  <doc-sep></s>","After Retief takes command of the mail skiff, he narrowly misses colliding with a warhead that tracks his trajectory. Thanks to a swift maneuver, Retief is able to dodge its impact and crash-lands on Adobe. However, due to the red blip on his radar screen, Retief is now aware that one of the warring groups on the planet is using illegal fission weapons in battle. Initially, he believes the Terrestrials were responsible for this, but after meeting Potter, he realizes his mistake. Potter informs him the Terrestrials do not have weapons of that kind, so it has to be Jaq weaponry. This information becomes important later when Retief meets Hoshick for the first time. As the leader of the Jaq, Hoshick informs Retief that the skirmishes were a result of a desire to engage in more sportsmanlike conduct on the battlefield. Retief realizes he can use this desire to his advantage and pushes Hoshick to question whether or not weapons are required at all in resolving conflict. He pushes this idea further by suggesting his own kind would never solve problems with weapons, despite one of the Jaqs having been previously shot down by them. Retief excuses this by again playing into Hoshick's desire to appear more dignified and saying the shooting was a failure to recognize the Jaq as sportsmen. This tactic works, and he is able to use it to convince Hoshick to engage in hand-to-hand combat, which eventually leads to the resolution of the war."
"<s>   MIGHTIEST QORN     BY KEITH LAUMER     Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt     held all humans in contempt—except one!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff.     Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt?     There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn.     They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect.     They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system!     But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory....     Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud:     His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest.     Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said.     Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger.     We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum!     Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan.     There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place.     Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service!     The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table.     We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible!  <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands?     Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere.     But that phenomenal reach—     I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him.     Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort.     Enough! Let me at the upstart!     Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants.     Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear.     Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief.     Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him.     Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties.     Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb.     Look here, Zubb began.     I      may     lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter.     Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly.     If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks.     Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called.     The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications—     Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me.     But we must select a leader!     That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader.  <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides.     I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes.     Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point!     Oh, sure, Qorn.     You bet.     I'm convinced.     Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus.     And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented.     Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes.     Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do.     But I'm sure that on more mature consideration—     I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again.     A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place.     You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it.     Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them?     Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly.     You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back.     Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal!     It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented.     It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle.     Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they?     Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender!     Well, Magnan started.     Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him.     What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt      like     to fight.     I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum.     What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered.     We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences.      IV     You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains—     Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I—       Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering.     I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled.     Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships!     And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each.     Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive.     That's all right. They don't have one.     But—     We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in—     Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything.     Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason—     Over my dead body!     My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation.  <doc-sep></s>","Ambassador Nitworth, the local head of the government for the Terrestrials, has received an ultimatum from a species called the Qornt. The Qornt want to take over the planet that the Terrestrials currently occupy. This is surprising because the whereabouts of the Qornt have been unknown for the past two centuries. The Ambassador orders Second Secretary Magnan to travel to Roolit I, the planet where the Qornt are now, to investigate the situation in person. Retief is sent to go with Magnan, with orders from the Ambassador to avoid Magnan from doing anything impulsive. When they arrive, Retief wants to investigate the situation on the surface, whereas Magnan would have been happy to take one look and return to his office. As Retief is insisting on taking a look, the two men are spotted by two eight-foot-tall creatures and a skirmish starts. After Retief pulls Magnan from the fight, and some bickering takes place, the men learn that these two creatures are Verpp, not Qornt. They ask if they know about the Ultimatum sent to the Ambassador—the men call the outer planet Smorbrod, but those on Roolit I call it Guzzum. Zubb and Slun (the Verpp) say that they aren’t caught up on political matters, so they don’t have anything to say about the upcoming invasion, but they do give the men information about where they are. Tarroon is the town they are closest to, where there are 15-20 Qornt, and Zubb and Slun say that the Qornt would mostly ignore Terrestrials, which makes Retief think they should walk right in. Magnan is afraid of a trap, but they head into the underground Qornt village. Once they make it to Qornt Hall, the group walks through a tunnel into a huge room with high ceilings, where the walls are plastered with weapons and other spoils of battle. It was a trap: the Verpp walk the men into the dining hall where the Qornt are having a feast, hoping that the Qornt would be mad at the men for interfering with the Verpp. It turns out the Qornt are even larger than the Verpp (twelve feet tall), and Qorn (the lead Qornt) is insistent that there will be no peace, because he is hungry for battle, so he ties up the men. Retief threatens them saying the Terrestrials intended to use Roolit I to test a bomb, and breaks out of his chains in the chaos—the differences in gravity between the planets means that the men are very strong, even if they are much smaller than the Verpp and Qornt. Retief ties up Qorn and declares himself the new leader. The Qornt explain that Verpp molt into Qornt after a few other stages of metamorphosis, and that the Qornt are very driven by a need for battle. Upon return to the outer planet, we learn that Retief has supposedly recruited the Qornt for the Peace Enforcement Corps, and sends them out to battle, circumventing Nitworth’s authority. "
"<s>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands?     Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere.     But that phenomenal reach—     I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him.     Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort.     Enough! Let me at the upstart!     Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants.     Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear.     Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief.     Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him.     Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties.     Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb.     Look here, Zubb began.     I      may     lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter.     Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly.     If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks.     Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called.     The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications—     Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me.     But we must select a leader!     That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader.  <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides.     I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes.     Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point!     Oh, sure, Qorn.     You bet.     I'm convinced.     Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus.     And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented.     Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes.     Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do.     But I'm sure that on more mature consideration—     I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again.     A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place.     You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it.     Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them?     Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly.     You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back.     Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal!     It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented.     It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle.     Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they?     Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender!     Well, Magnan started.     Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him.     What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt      like     to fight.     I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum.     What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered.     We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences.      IV     You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains—     Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I—       Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering.     I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled.     Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships!     And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each.     Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive.     That's all right. They don't have one.     But—     We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in—     Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything.     Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason—     Over my dead body!     My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation.  <doc-sep>Retief turned. Zubb stood gripping an ornately decorated power pistolin one bony hand, a slim needler in the other. Both were pointed atMagnan's chest.     I suspected you had hidden qualities, Zubb, Retief commented.     See here, Zubb! We're diplomats! Magnan started.     Careful, Mr. Magnan; you may goad him to a frenzy.     By no means, Zubb whistled. I much prefer to observe the frenzyof the Qornt when presented with the news that two peaceful Verpphave been assaulted and kidnapped by bullying interlopers. If there'sanything that annoys the Qornt, it's Qornt-like behavior in others. Nowstep along, please.     Rest assured, this will be reported!     I doubt it.     You'll face the wrath of Enlightened Galactic Opinion!     Oh? How big a navy does Enlightened Galactic Opinion have?     Stop scaring him, Mr. Magnan. He may get nervous and shoot. Retiefstepped into the banquet hall, headed for the resplendent figure atthe head of the table. A trio of flute-players broke off in mid-bleat,staring. An inverted pyramid of tumblers blinked as Retief swung past,followed by Magnan and the tall Verpp. The shrill chatter at the tablefaded.     Qorn turned as Retief came up, blinking three-inch eyes. Zubb steppedforward, gibbered, waving his arms excitedly. Qorn pushed back hischair—a low, heavily padded stool—and stared unwinking at Retief,moving his head to bring first one great round eye, then the other, tobear. There were small blue veins in the immense fleshy beak. The bushyhair, springing out in a giant halo around the grayish, porous-skinnedface, was wiry, stiff, moss-green, with tufts of chartreuse fuzzsurrounding what appeared to be tympanic membranes. The tall head-dressof scarlet silk and purple feathers was slightly askew, and a loop ofpink pearls had slipped down above one eye.     Zubb finished his speech and fell silent, breathing hard.     Qorn looked Retief over in silence, then belched.     Not bad, Retief said admiringly. Maybe we could get up a matchbetween you and Ambassador Sternwheeler. You've got the volume on him,but he's got timbre.     So, Qorn hooted in a resonant tenor. You come from Guzzum, eh? OrSmorbrod, as I think you call it. What is it you're after? More time?A compromise? Negotiations? Peace? He slammed a bony hand against thetable. The answer is      no     !     Zubb twittered. Qorn cocked an eye, motioned to a servant. Chain thatone. He indicated Magnan. His eyes went to Retief. This one's bigger;you'd best chain him, too.     Why, your Excellency— Magnan started, stepping forward.     Stay back! Qorn hooted. Stand over there where I can keep an eye onyou.     Your Excellency, I'm empowered—     Not here, you're not! Qorn trumpeted. Want peace, do you? Well, Idon't want peace! I've had a surfeit of peace these last two centuries!I want action! Loot! Adventure! Glory! He turned to look down thetable. How about it, fellows? It's war to the knife, eh?  <doc-sep></s>","Magnan and Retief are the men selected to go to the planet where the Qornt are based in order to investigate. Although Magnan was the first person assigned to the job, he is less comfortable out in the field compared to Retief, who ends up making most of the decisions. There is a tension here as they continue their adventure, with Magnan being scared and Retief encouraging him forward, and Retief saving Magnan when he is pinned by the Verpp. Magnan is the one who is explicitly a diplomat, but Retief takes over most conversations—not only does he push the mission forward and insist on following the Verpp to the Qornt, but he eventually declares himself leader of the Qornt. Even when Ambassador Nitworth demands information from Magnan near the end, it is Retief who responds—he wants the Ambassador to know that he is the one calling the shots, even if it has been behind the scenes. It’s clear that Magnan has either not understood this, as if he were being tricked, or he is just not good at giving credit where credit is due, because he refers to the plan as his own recruiting scheme, correcting himself to say it was a group effort, even though it was all Retief’s idea. At the very end of the story, Retief complies to all of Magnan’s requests in an uncharacteristic way—the interpretation is left open, but there is a possibility Retief is hiding something and intends to return as a military leader with the Qornt and perhaps attack the Terrestrials. "
"<s>   MIGHTIEST QORN     BY KEITH LAUMER     Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt     held all humans in contempt—except one!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff.     Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt?     There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn.     They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect.     They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system!     But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory....     Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud:     His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest.     Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said.     Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger.     We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum!     Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan.     There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place.     Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service!     The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table.     We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible!  <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides.     I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes.     Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point!     Oh, sure, Qorn.     You bet.     I'm convinced.     Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus.     And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented.     Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes.     Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do.     But I'm sure that on more mature consideration—     I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again.     A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place.     You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it.     Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them?     Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly.     You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back.     Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal!     It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented.     It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle.     Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they?     Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender!     Well, Magnan started.     Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him.     What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt      like     to fight.     I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum.     What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered.     We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences.      IV     You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains—     Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I—       Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering.     I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled.     Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships!     And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each.     Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive.     That's all right. They don't have one.     But—     We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in—     Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything.     Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason—     Over my dead body!     My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation.  <doc-sep>Magnan hovered at Retief's side. Twelve feet tall, he moaned. Anddid you notice the size of those hands?     Retief watched as Qorn's aides helped him out of his formal trappings.I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Magnan. This is a light-Gee world. Idoubt if old Qorn would weigh up at more than two-fifty standard poundshere.     But that phenomenal reach—     I'll peck away at him at knee level. When he bends over to swat me,I'll get a crack at him.     Across the cleared floor, Qorn shook off his helpers with a snort.     Enough! Let me at the upstart!     Retief moved out to meet him, watching the upraised backward-jointedarms. Qorn stalked forward, long lean legs bent, long horny feetclacking against the polished floor. The other aliens—both servitorsand bejeweled Qornt—formed a wide circle, all eyes unwaveringly on thecombatants.     Qorn struck suddenly, a long arm flashing down in a vicious cut atRetief, who leaned aside, caught one lean shank below the knee. Qornbent to haul Retief from his leg—and staggered back as a haymaker tookhim just below the beak. A screech went up from the crowd as Retiefleaped clear.     Qorn hissed and charged. Retief whirled aside, then struck the alien'soff-leg in a flying tackle. Qorn leaned, arms windmilling, crashed tothe floor. Retief whirled, dived for the left arm, whipped it behindthe narrow back, seized Qorn's neck in a stranglehold and threw hisweight backward. Qorn fell on his back, his legs squatted out at anawkward angle. He squawked and beat his free arm on the floor, reachingin vain for Retief.     Zubb stepped forward, pistols ready. Magnan stepped before him.     Need I remind you, sir, he said icily, that this is an officialdiplomatic function? I can brook no interference from disinterestedparties.     Zubb hesitated. Magnan held out a hand. I must ask you to hand me yourweapons, Zubb.     Look here, Zubb began.     I      may     lose my temper, Magnan hinted. Zubb lowered the guns, passedthem to Magnan. He thrust them into his belt with a sour smile, turnedback to watch the encounter.     Retief had thrown a turn of violet silk around Qorn's left wrist, boundit to the alien's neck. Another wisp of stuff floated from Qorn'sshoulder. Retief, still holding Qorn in an awkward sprawl, wrappedit around one outflung leg, trussed ankle and thigh together. Qornflopped, hooting. At each movement, the constricting loop around hisneck, jerked his head back, the green crest tossing wildly.     If I were you, I'd relax, Retief said, rising and releasing his grip.Qorn got a leg under him; Retief kicked it. Qorn's chin hit the floorwith a hollow clack. He wilted, an ungainly tangle of over-long limbsand gay silks.     Retief turned to the watching crowd. Next? he called.     The blue and flame Qornt stepped forward. Maybe this would be a goodtime to elect a new leader, he said. Now, my qualifications—     Sit down, Retief said loudly. He stepped to the head of the table,seated himself in Qorn's vacated chair. A couple of you finishtrussing Qorn up for me.     But we must select a leader!     That won't be necessary, boys. I'm your new leader.  <doc-sep></s>","Second Secretary Magnan was selected by Ambassador Nitworth to travel to Roolit I to investigate the Qornt. Magnan does not have much field experience and is surprised by this assignment, and had been trying to get out of doing anything related to the Qornt issue when it was handed to him. He resigns himself to the task and Retief is assigned to go along with him. When they get to the planet, Magnan is clearly anxious—he remarks on the quality of the view and states his intent to head back to finish the mission, but Retief doesn’t let him give up so early. When the men are spotted by some creatures, and he tries to run for help, he is instead jumped by the creatures and Retief has to tear him free. This gives Magnan some confidence, and has a much more arrogant attitude towards the Verpp. He flaunts his title as diplomat and tries to assert as much dominance as he can. Once he learns that these are Verpp and not Qornt, he is preoccupied by the confusing details of the story: how many Qornt there are, and things like that. Once the group starts towards the Qornt’s village, however, he becomes nervous again, no longer with the upper hand. He is not sure if he is walking into a trap, and becomes more and more nervous until the trap is revealed. Once at gunpoint standing in front of the Qornt, however, he has enough confidence to pry at the division between the Qornt who want war and those who aren’t sold on the idea yet. Once Retief threatens the Qornt and a fight commences, Magnan still tries to talk his way out of Zubb shooting the men, gains confidence again, and insists on taking the guns. Once Qorn has been tied up, Magnan suggests putting the Verpp in charge, and asks the Qornt if there are alternatives to militaristic life that they would consider. Eventually they all make it back to where the story started, and he seems more passive again, until the Ambassador is on board with Retief’s plan, and Magnan starts ordering Retief around again, though Retief’s behavior has shifted in response. "
"<s>The beak twitched. Smorbrod? I know of no place called Smorbrod.     The outer planet of this system.     Oh, yes. We call it Guzzum. I had heard that some sort of creatureshad established a settlement there, but I confess I pay little note tosuch matters.     We're wasting time, Retief, Magnan said. We must truss these chapsup, hurry back to the boat and make our escape. You heard what theysaid.     Are there any Qornt down there at the harbor, where the boats are?Retief asked.     At Tarroon, you mean? Oh, yes. Planning some adventure.     That would be the invasion of Smorbrod, Magnan said. And unless wehurry, Retief, we're likely to be caught there with the last of theevacuees!     How many Qornt would you say there are at Tarroon?     Oh, a very large number. Perhaps fifteen or twenty.     Fifteen or twenty what? Magnan looked perplexed.     Fifteen or twenty Qornt.     You mean that there are only fifteen or twenty individual Qornt inall?     Another whistle. Not at all. I was referring to the local Qornt only.There are more at the other Centers, of course.     And the Qornt are responsible for the ultimatum—unilaterally?     I suppose so; it sounds like them. A truculent group, you know. Andinterplanetary relations      are     rather a hobby of theirs.     Zubb moaned and stirred. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. He spoketo his companion in a shrill alien clatter of consonants.     What did he say?     Poor Zubb. He blames me for his bruises, since it was my idea togather you as specimens.     You should have known better than to tackle that fierce-lookingcreature, Zubb said, pointing his beak at Magnan.     How does it happen that you speak Terrestrial? Retief asked.     Oh, one picks up all sorts of dialects.     It's quite charming, really, Magnan said. Such a quaint, archaicaccent.     Suppose we went down to Tarroon, Retief asked. What kind ofreception would we get?     That depends. I wouldn't recommend interfering with the Gwil or theRheuk; it's their nest-mending time, you know. The Boog will be busymating—such a tedious business—and of course the Qornt are tied upwith their ceremonial feasting. I'm afraid no one will take any noticeof you.     Do you mean to say, Magnan demanded, that these ferocious Qornt, whohave issued an ultimatum to the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne—whoopenly avow their occupied world—would ignore Terrestrials in theirmidst?     If at all possible.     Retief got to his feet.     I think our course is clear, Mr. Magnan. It's up to us to go down andattract a little attention.      III     I'm not at all sure we're going about this in the right way, Magnanpuffed, trotting at Retief's side. These fellows Zubb and Slun—Oh,they seem affable enough, but how can we be sure we're not being ledinto a trap?     We can't.     Magnan stopped short. Let's go back.     All right, Retief said. Of course there may be an ambush—     Magnan moved off. Let's keep going.     The party emerged from the undergrowth at the edge of a greatbrush-grown mound. Slun took the lead, rounded the flank of thehillock, halted at a rectangular opening cut into the slope.     You can find your way easily enough from here, he said. You'llexcuse us, I hope—     Nonsense, Slun! Zubb pushed forward. I'll escort our guests to QorntHall. He twittered briefly to his fellow Verpp. Slun twittered back.     I don't like it, Retief, Magnan whispered. Those fellows areplotting mischief.     Threaten them with violence, Mr Magnan. They're scared of you.     That's true. And the drubbing they received was well-deserved. I'm apatient man, but there are occasions—     Come along, please, Zubb called. Another ten minutes' walk—     See here, we have no interest in investigating this barrow, Magnanannounced. We wish you to take us direct to Tarroon to interview yourmilitary leaders regarding the ultimatum!     Yes, yes, of course. Qornt Hall lies here inside the village.     This is Tarroon?     A modest civic center, sir, but there are those who love it.     No wonder we didn't observe their works from the air, Magnanmuttered. Camouflaged. He moved hesitantly through the opening.     The party moved along a wide, deserted tunnel which sloped downsteeply, then leveled off and branched. Zubb took the center branch,ducking slightly under the nine-foot ceiling lit at intervals with whatappeared to be primitive incandescent panels.     Few signs of an advanced technology here, Magnan whispered. Thesecreatures must devote all their talents to warlike enterprise.     Ahead, Zubb slowed. A distant susurration was audible, a sustainedhigh-pitched screeching. Softly, now. We approach Qornt Hall. Theycan be an irascible lot when disturbed at their feasting.     When will the feast be over? Magnan called hoarsely.     In another few weeks, I should imagine, if, as you say, they'vescheduled an invasion for next month.     Look here, Zubb. Magnan shook a finger at the tall alien. How is itthat these Qornt are allowed to embark on piratical ventures of thissort without reference to the wishes of the majority?     Oh, the majority of the Qornt favor the move, I imagine.     These few hotheads are permitted to embroil the planet in war?     Oh, they don't embroil the planet in war. They merely—     Retief, this is fantastic! I've heard of iron-fisted military cliquesbefore, but this is madness!     Come softly, now. Zubb beckoned, moving toward a bend in theyellow-lit corridor. Retief and Magnan moved forward.  <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight.     We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings?     I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group.     What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim.     Why?     Because that's the way it's done.     Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing—     If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen?     Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled.     When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels—     I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt?     After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp—     You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn?     Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes.     What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked.     Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood.     Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance?     Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was.     But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all—     Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action.     But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you!     Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on.     Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course.     Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere....      V     At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white.     Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be?     Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather.     A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit.     The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out.     Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you.     Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this.     He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts.     Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume?     Nope, the Qornt said shortly.     I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on.     Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This—     Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now—     You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up.     Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion—     Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve.     In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested—     Requested? the Qornt honked.     Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have.     You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't—     Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief.     If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps.     Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations.     Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides.     I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered.     Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions.  <doc-sep>   MIGHTIEST QORN     BY KEITH LAUMER     Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt     held all humans in contempt—except one!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff.     Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt?     There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn.     They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect.     They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system!     But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory....     Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud:     His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest.     Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said.     Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger.     We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum!     Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan.     There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place.     Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service!     The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table.     We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible!  <doc-sep></s>","Because they Qornt have been underground for two centuries while they molted from the Verpp stage of their life cycle, they have gone undetected by the Terrestrials in this time. This led the Terrestrials to believe that the Qornt possessed superior technology of some kind, as they seemed to have reappeared out of nowhere. However, this is not the case, and it was merely that the group remained dormant for a long time. There are rumors of stealth technology and superior ships, including a superdrive, but not much firsthand information until Magnan and Retief make it to the surface of Roolit I, the planet that the Qornt are currently occupying. It is true that the Verpp and Qornt are physically larger than the Terrestrials, but the systems of gravity on the different planets means that the smaller Terrestrials are actually stronger and have a kind of advantage on Roolit I. The Verpp tell Magnan that the Qornt have huge, powerful warships that have a variety of weapon types. Not only this, but each Qornt has his own ship, which means that there is a large fleet of these. It comes to Magnan as a surprise, then, that the Qornt are not worried about diplomatic negotiation, but instead just seem to have an impulse that drives them to be in battle. "
"<s>   MIGHTIEST QORN     BY KEITH LAUMER     Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt     held all humans in contempt—except one!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff.     Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt?     There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn.     They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect.     They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system!     But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory....     Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud:     His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest.     Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said.     Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger.     We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum!     Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan.     There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place.     Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service!     The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table.     We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible!  <doc-sep>There was a momentary silence from all sides.     I guess so, grunted a giant Qornt in iridescent blue withflame-colored plumes.     Qorn's eyes bulged. He half rose. We've been all over this, hebassooned. He clamped bony fingers on the hilt of a light rapier. Ithought I'd made my point!     Oh, sure, Qorn.     You bet.     I'm convinced.     Qorn rumbled and resumed his seat. All for one and one for all, that'sus.     And you're the one, eh, Qorn? Retief commented.     Magnan cleared his throat. I sense that some of you gentlemen are notconvinced of the wisdom of this move, he piped, looking along thetable at the silks, jewels, beaks, feather-decked crests and staringeyes.     Silence! Qorn hooted. No use your talking to my loyal lieutenantsanyway, he added. They do whatever I convince them they ought to do.     But I'm sure that on more mature consideration—     I can lick any Qornt in the house. Qorn said. That's why I'm Qorn.He belched again.     A servant came up staggering under a weight of chain, dropped it with acrash at Magnan's feet. Zubb aimed the guns while the servant wrappedthree loops around Magnan's wrists, snapped a lock in place.     You next! The guns pointed at Retief's chest. He held out his arms.Four loops of silvery-gray chain in half-inch links dropped aroundthem. The servant cinched them up tight, squeezed a lock through theends and closed it.     Now, Qorn said, lolling back in his chair, glass in hand. There's abit of sport to be had here, lads. What shall we do with them?     Let them go, the blue and flame Qornt said glumly.     You can do better than that, Qorn hooted. Now here's a suggestion:we carve them up a little—lop off the external labiae and pinnae,say—and ship them back.     Good lord! Retief, he's talking about cutting off our ears and sendingus home mutilated! What a barbaric proposal!     It wouldn't be the first time a Terrestrial diplomat got a trimming,Retief commented.     It should have the effect of stimulating the Terries to put up areasonable scrap, Qorn said judiciously. I have a feeling thatthey're thinking of giving up without a struggle.     Oh, I doubt that, the blue-and-flame Qornt said. Why should they?     Qorn rolled an eye at Retief and another at Magnan. Take these two,he hooted. I'll wager they came here to negotiate a surrender!     Well, Magnan started.     Hold it, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. I'll tell him.     What's your proposal? Qorn whistled, taking a gulp from his goblet.A fifty-fifty split? Monetary reparations? Alternate territory? I canassure you, it's useless. We Qornt      like     to fight.     I'm afraid you've gotten the wrong impression, your Excellency,Retief said blandly. We didn't come to negotiate. We came to deliveran Ultimatum.     What? Qorn trumpeted. Behind Retief, Magnan spluttered.     We plan to use this planet for target practice, Retief said. A newtype hell bomb we've worked out. Have all your people off of it inseventy-two hours, or suffer the consequences.      IV     You have the gall, Qorn stormed, to stand here in the center ofQornt Hall—uninvited, at that—and in chains—     Oh, these, Retief said. He tensed his arms. The soft aluminum linksstretched and broke. He shook the light metal free. We diplomats liketo go along with colorful local customs, but I wouldn't want to misleadyou. Now, as to the evacuation of Roolit I—       Zubb screeched, waved the guns. The Qornt were jabbering.     I told you they were brutes, Zubb shrilled.     Qorn slammed his fist down on the table. I don't care what they are!he honked. Evacuate, hell! I can field eighty-five combat-ready ships!     And we can englobe every one of them with a thousand Peace Enforcerswith a hundred megatons/second firepower each.     Retief. Magnan tugged at his sleeve. Don't forget their superdrive.     That's all right. They don't have one.     But—     We'll take you on! Qorn French-horned. We're the Qorn! We glory inbattle! We live in fame or go down in—     Hogwash, the flame-and-blue Qorn cut in. If it wasn't for you, Qorn,we could sit around and feast and brag and enjoy life without having toprove anything.     Qorn, you seem to be the fire-brand here, Retief said. I think therest of the boys would listen to reason—     Over my dead body!     My idea exactly, Retief said. You claim you can lick any man inthe house. Unwind yourself from your ribbons and step out here on thefloor, and we'll see how good you are at backing up your conversation.  <doc-sep>As I see it, Retief said, dribbling cigar ashes into an empty wineglass, you Qornt like to be warriors, but you don't particularly liketo fight.     We don't mind a little fighting—within reason. And, of course, asQornt, we're expected to die in battle. But what I say is, why rushthings?     I have a suggestion, Magnan said. Why not turn the reins ofgovernment over to the Verpp? They seem a level-headed group.     What good would that do? Qornt are Qornt. It seems there's always oneamong us who's a slave to instinct—and, naturally, we have to followhim.     Why?     Because that's the way it's done.     Why not do it another way? Magnan offered. Now, I'd like to suggestcommunity singing—     If we gave up fighting, we might live too long. Then what wouldhappen?     Live too long? Magnan looked puzzled.     When estivating time comes there'd be no burrows for us. Anyway, withthe new Qornt stepping on our heels—     I've lost the thread, Magnan said. Who are the new Qornt?     After estivating, the Verpp moult, and then they're Qornt, of course.The Gwil become Boog, the Boog become Rheuk, the Rheuk metamorphosizeinto Verpp—     You mean Slun and Zubb—the mild-natured naturalists—will becomewarmongers like Qorn?     Very likely. 'The milder the Verpp, the wilder the Qorn,' as the oldsaying goes.     What do Qornt turn into? Retief asked.     Hmmmm. That's a good question. So far, none have survived Qornthood.     Have you thought of forsaking your warlike ways? Magnan asked. Whatabout taking up sheepherding and regular church attendance?     Don't mistake me. We Qornt like a military life. It's great sport tosit around roaring fires and drink and tell lies and then go dashingoff to enjoy a brisk affray and some leisurely looting afterward. Butwe prefer a nice numerical advantage. Not this business of tackling youTerrestrials over on Guzzum—that was a mad notion. We had no idea whatyour strength was.     But now that's all off, of course, Magnan chirped. Now that we'vehad diplomatic relations and all—     Oh, by no means. The fleet lifts in thirty days. After all, we'reQornt; we have to satisfy our drive to action.     But Mr. Retief is your leader now. He won't let you!     Only a dead Qornt stays home when Attack day comes. And even ifhe orders us all to cut our own throats, there are still the otherCenters—all with their own leaders. No, gentlemen, the Invasion isdefinitely on.     Why don't you go invade somebody else? Magnan suggested. I couldname some very attractive prospects—outside my sector, of course.     Hold everything, Retief said. I think we've got the basis of a dealhere....      V     At the head of a double column of gaudily caparisoned Qornt, Retiefand Magnan strolled across the ramp toward the bright tower of the CDTSector HQ. Ahead, gates opened, and a black Corps limousine emerged,flying an Ambassadorial flag under a plain square of white.     Curious, Magnan commented. I wonder what the significance of thewhite ensign might be?     Retief raised a hand. The column halted with a clash of accoutrementsand a rasp of Qornt boots. Retief looked back along the line. The highwhite sun flashed on bright silks, polished buckles, deep-dyed plumes,butts of pistols, the soft gleam of leather.     A brave show indeed, Magnan commented approvingly. I confess theidea has merit.     The limousine pulled up with a squeal of brakes, stood on two fat-tiredwheels, gyros humming softly. The hatch popped up. A portly diplomatstepped out.     Why, Ambassador Nitworth, Magnan glowed. This is very kind of you.     Keep cool, Magnan, Nitworth said in a strained voice. We'll attemptto get you out of this.     He stepped past Magnan's out-stretched hand and looked hesitantly atthe ramrod-straight line of Qornt, eighty-five strong—and beyond, atthe eighty-five tall Qornt dreadnaughts.     Good afternoon, sir ... ah, Your Excellency, Nitworth said, blinkingup at the leading Qornt. You are Commander of the Strike Force, Iassume?     Nope, the Qornt said shortly.     I ... ah ... wish to request seventy-two hours in which to evacuateHeadquarters, Nitworth plowed on.     Mr. Ambassador. Retief said. This—     Don't panic, Retief. I'll attempt to secure your release, Nitworthhissed over his shoulder. Now—     You will address our leader with more respect! the tall Qornt hooted,eyeing Nitworth ominously from eleven feet up.     Oh, yes indeed, sir ... your Excellency ... Commander. Now, about theinvasion—     Mr. Secretary, Magnan tugged at Nitworth's sleeve.     In heaven's name, permit me to negotiate in peace! Nitworth snapped.He rearranged his features. Now your Excellency, we've arranged toevacuate Smorbrod, of course, just as you requested—     Requested? the Qornt honked.     Ah ... demanded, that is. Quite rightly of course. Ordered.Instructed. And, of course, we'll be only too pleased to follow anyother instructions you might have.     You don't quite get the big picture, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.This isn't—     Silence, confound you! Nitworth barked. The leading Qornt looked atRetief. He nodded. Two bony hands shot out, seized Nitworth and stuffeda length of bright pink silk into his mouth, then spun him around andheld him facing Retief.     If you don't mind my taking this opportunity to brief you, Mr.Ambassador, Retief said blandly. I think I should mention that thisisn't an invasion fleet. These are the new recruits for the PeaceEnforcement Corps.     Magnan stepped forward, glanced at the gag in Ambassador Nitworth'smouth, hesitated, then cleared his throat. We felt, he said, thatthe establishment of a Foreign Brigade within the P. E. Corps structurewould provide the element of novelty the Department has requestedin our recruiting, and at the same time would remove the stigma ofTerrestrial chauvinism from future punitive operations.     Nitworth stared, eyes bulging. He grunted, reaching for the gag, caughtthe Qornt's eye on him, dropped his hands to his sides.     I suggest we get the troops in out of the hot sun, Retief said.Magnan edged close. What about the gag? he whispered.     Let's leave it where it is for a while, Retief murmured. It may saveus a few concessions.  <doc-sep></s>","The Qornt is a race of aliens known for their militaristic tendencies that seemed to disappear two centuries ago. They are of particular issue because they have reappeared and written to the Terrestrials saying they would take over the planet that the Terrestrials are on. We eventually learn that the Qornt are but one stage in a longer life cycle, in which Gwil become Boog, who become Rheuk, who become Verpp, who eventually become Qornt after the two hundred year estivation period. It is only in this stage that they become antagonistic and warlike, but they do not know what happens after this stage because Qornt are expected to die in battle, and none have survived long enough to know what happens. The Qornt themselves are twelve feet tall and troll-like, with very bushy fur, huge eyes, and beaks. They are very comfortable with their militaristic traditions—when we meet them, they are in the midst of a large feast that they partake in before going to war. They boast the spoils of battle on display in their great hall, and wear intricate headdresses to show their power. After a skirmish with the men on Roolit I, in which Qorn (the lead Qornt) is replaced in power by Retief, they eventually make it to the outer planets where they have presumably been recruited into the Peace Enforcement Corps."
"<s>  DUST UNTO DUST     By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY     It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister     city of metal that glittered malignantly before the     cautious advance of three awed space-scouters.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away.     He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction.     He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant.     Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city.     Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings.     The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north.     Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it?     Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried?     Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like?     Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal.     Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band.     Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too.     Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in.     Rodney nodded.     After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes?     Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for.     Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested.     Could be, Martin said. Let's go in.     The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city.     Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it?     Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is?     Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled.     A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded.     Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all?     I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out.     Rodney said quickly, I mean outside.     Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy.     He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted.     Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here....     Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass?     The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed.     Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street.     Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance.     Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend.     Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination.     Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter?     The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving—     Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man!     Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here.     ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction.     Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That—     Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out!  <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?     Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece.     Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?     But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth?     Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there?     Well, yes. But those are different.     Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.'     But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?     Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field.     After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.     That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained.  <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it.     Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then?     Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself.     Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again.     Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun.     The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches.     For a little while he was alone.     Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects.       Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals.     Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself.     How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance.     We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered.     Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it.     The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff.     Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens?     Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees.     He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts.     Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney.     All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust.     Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine.     Wass!     There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening.     The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves.     Are we going straight? Rodney asked.     Of course, Martin growled.     There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number.     Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney?     Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed.     A grate.     Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out!     Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I—     There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate.     The grate groaned upward and stopped.     Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream.     Martin switched off his radio, sick.     He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well?     I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer?     We couldn't do anything for him.     Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us.     So he did, Martin said, very quietly.     Rodney said nothing.     Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end?     Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—!     Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap.     An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it.     Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them.     Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed.   <doc-sep></s>","The story opens with Rodney, Martin and Wass landing on a foreign planet and overlooking an abandoned metal city where the inhabitants supposedly died more than a million years ago. They had thirteen hours to explore before they must return to their mother ship.They notice a metal rim at the perimeter of the city that they must step over to enter, and continue in to explore. Wass must return to their “lifeboat” spaceship to get a camera, but is unable to exit the city as the metal band they noticed coming in has turned into a dome-shaped shield over the entire city. They suspect it may be a radiation shield, and are suspicious that the wind they saw when landing and their inability to contact their home ship may indicate a tragedy took place as they arrived. They find a control center of sorts with lots of knobs and levers, but do not engage with it for fear of not knowing what might happen. They all find the city somewhat familiar, but have no idea why. They begin looking for where the water of the city comes from, since they may be able to find a way out of the city through its transport corridors. They all begin to start frightening each other with stories and seeing dust and objects move around in the dark. Rodney and Martin enter an underground tunnel through a hatch in the ground and Wass chooses not to follow them and instead leaves to return to the switchboard.As Rodney and Martin discover a grate in the tunnel it begins to open for them. Wass delivers the message on the radio that he was able to do that from the control room, and then something attacks and kills him. Rodney and Martin escape to the outside of the dome to where others from their crew have come to their rescue. It is unclear whether Rodney and Martin ultimately live after they exit the tunnel."
"<s>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it.     Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then?     Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself.     Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again.     Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun.     The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches.     For a little while he was alone.     Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects.       Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals.     Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself.     How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance.     We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered.     Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it.     The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff.     Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens?     Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees.     He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts.     Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney.     All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust.     Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine.     Wass!     There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening.     The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves.     Are we going straight? Rodney asked.     Of course, Martin growled.     There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number.     Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney?     Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed.     A grate.     Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out!     Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I—     There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate.     The grate groaned upward and stopped.     Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream.     Martin switched off his radio, sick.     He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well?     I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer?     We couldn't do anything for him.     Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us.     So he did, Martin said, very quietly.     Rodney said nothing.     Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end?     Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—!     Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap.     An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it.     Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them.     Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed.   <doc-sep>  DUST UNTO DUST     By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY     It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister     city of metal that glittered malignantly before the     cautious advance of three awed space-scouters.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away.     He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction.     He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant.     Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city.     Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings.     The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north.     Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it?     Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried?     Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like?     Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal.     Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band.     Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too.     Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in.     Rodney nodded.     After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes?     Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for.     Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested.     Could be, Martin said. Let's go in.     The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city.     Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it?     Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is?     Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled.     A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded.     Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all?     I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out.     Rodney said quickly, I mean outside.     Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy.     He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted.     Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here....     Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass?     The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed.     Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street.     Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance.     Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend.     Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination.     Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter?     The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving—     Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man!     Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here.     ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction.     Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That—     Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out!  <doc-sep>Wass moved silently through the darkness beyond the torches. We allhave guns, Martin.     I'm holding mine. Martin waited.     After a moment, Wass switched his flashlight back on. He said quietly,He's right, Rodney. It would be sure death to monkey around in here.     Well.... Rodney turned quickly toward the black arch. Let's get outof here, then!     Martin hung back waiting for the others to go ahead of him down themetal hall. At the other arch, where the ramp led downward, he called ahalt. If the dome, or whatever it is, is a radiation screen there mustbe at least half-a-dozen emergency exits around the city.     Rodney said, To search every building next to the dome clean aroundthe city would take years.     Martin nodded. But there must be central roads beneath this main levelleading to them. Up here there are too many roads.     Wass laughed rudely.     Have you a better idea?     Wass ignored that, as Martin hoped he would. He said slowly, Thatleads to another idea. If the band around the city is responsible forthe dome, does it project down into the ground as well?     You mean      dig     out? Martin asked.     Sure. Why not?     We're wearing heavy suits and bulky breathing units. We have noequipment.     That shouldn't be hard to come by.     Martin smiled, banishing Wass' idea.     Rodney said, They may have had their digging equipment built right into themselves.     Anyway, Martin decided, we can take a look down below.     In the pitch dark, Wass added.     Martin adjusted his torch, began to lead the way down the metal ramp.The incline was gentle, apparently constructed for legs shorter, feetperhaps less broad than their own. The metal, without mark of any sort,gleamed under the combined light of the torches, unrolling out of thedarkness before the men.     At length the incline melted smoothly into the next level of the city.     Martin shined his light upward, and the others followed his example.Metal as smooth and featureless as that on which they stood shone downon them.     Wass turned his light parallel with the floor, and then moved slowly ina circle. No supports. No supports anywhere. What keeps all that upthere?     I don't know. I have no idea. Martin gestured toward the ramp withhis light. Does all this, this whole place, look at all familiar toyou?     Rodney's gulp was clearly audible through the radio receivers. Here?     No, no, Martin answered impatiently, not just here. I mean the wholecity.     Yes, Wass said dryly, it does. I'm sure this is where all mynightmares stay when they're not on shift.     Martin turned on his heel and started down a metal avenue which, hethought, paralleled the street above. And Rodney and Wass followed himsilently. They moved along the metal, past unfamiliar shapes made moreso by gloom and moving shadows, past doors dancing grotesquely in thethree lights, past openings in the occasional high metal partitions,past something which was perhaps a conveyor belt, past anothersomething which could have been anything at all.     The metal street ended eventually in a blank metal wall.     The edge of the city—the city which was a dome of force above and abowl of metal below.     After a long time, Wass sighed. Well, skipper...?     We go back, I guess, Martin said.     Rodney turned swiftly to face him. Martin thought the tall man washolding his gun. To the switchboard, Martin?     Unless someone has a better idea, Martin conceded. He waited. ButRodney was holding the gun ... and Wass was.... Then—I can't think ofanything else.     They began to retrace their steps along the metal street, back pastthe same dancing shapes of metal, the partitions, the odd windows, alllooking different now in the new angles of illumination.     Martin was in the lead. Wass followed him silently. Rodney, tall,matchstick thin, even in his cumbersome suit, swayed with jauntytriumph in the rear.     Martin looked at the metal street lined with its metal objects and hesighed. He remembered how the dark buildings of the city looked atsurface level, how the city itself looked when they were landing, andthen when they were walking toward it. The dream was gone again fornow. Idealism died in him, again and again, yet it was always reborn.But—The only city, so far as anyone knew, on the first planet they'dever explored. And it had to be like this. Nightmares, Wass said, andMartin thought perhaps the city was built by a race of beings who atsome point twisted away from their evolutionary spiral, plagued by asort of racial insanity.     No, Martin thought, shaking his head. No, that couldn't be.Viewpoint ... his viewpoint. It was the haunting sense of familiarity,a faint strain through all this broad jumble, the junkpile of alienmetal, which was making him theorize so wildly.     Then Wass touched his elbow. Look there, Martin. Left of the ramp.     Light from their torches was reflected, as from glass.     All right, Rodney said belligerently into his radio. What's holdingup the procession?     Martin was silent.     Wass undertook to explain. Why not, after all? Martin asked himself. Itwas in Wass' own interest. In a moment, all three were standing beforea bank of glass cases which stretched off into the distance as far asthe combined light of their torches would reach.     Seeds! Wass exclaimed, his faceplate pressed against the glass.     Martin blinked. He thought how little time they had. He wet his lips.     Wass' gloved hands fumbled awkwardly at a catch in the nearest sectionof the bank.     Martin thought of the dark, convoluted land outside the city. If theywouldn't grow there.... Or had they, once? Don't, Wass!     Torchlight reflected from Wass' faceplate as he turned his head. Whynot?     They were like children.... We don't know, released, what they'll do.     Skipper, Wass said carefully, if we don't get out of this place bythe deadline we may be eating these.     Martin raised his arm tensely. Opening a seed bank doesn't help usfind a way out of here. He started up the ramp. Besides, we've nowater.     Rodney came last up the ramp, less jaunty now, but still holding thegun. His mind, too, was taken up with childhood's imaginings. Fora plant to grow in this environment, it wouldn't need much water.Maybe— he had a vision of evil plants attacking them, growing withsuper-swiftness at the air valves and joints of their suits —only thelittle moisture in the atmosphere.  <doc-sep></s>","Wass is an equal part of the exploration party with Rodney and Martin until he has had enough and parts ways with them when they enter an underground passageway filled with dust. Wass instead returns to the switchboard and pulls a series of levers that allows Rodney and Martin to escape from the city through the underground tunnels - saving their lives. Wass ultimately dies at the switchboard, though it is not clear what kills him. "
"<s>  DUST UNTO DUST     By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY     It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister     city of metal that glittered malignantly before the     cautious advance of three awed space-scouters.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away.     He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction.     He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant.     Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city.     Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings.     The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north.     Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it?     Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried?     Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like?     Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal.     Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band.     Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too.     Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in.     Rodney nodded.     After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes?     Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for.     Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested.     Could be, Martin said. Let's go in.     The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city.     Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it?     Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is?     Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled.     A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded.     Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all?     I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out.     Rodney said quickly, I mean outside.     Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy.     He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted.     Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here....     Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass?     The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed.     Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street.     Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance.     Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend.     Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination.     Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter?     The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving—     Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man!     Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here.     ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction.     Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That—     Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out!  <doc-sep>Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon readyfor an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through thedarkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt overthat curving surface for identifying features.     While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenlyseized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savagekick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by anunexpected voice.     Get your filthy hands off me! it whispered angrily. Who do you thinkyou are?     Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Roddie, he said, squatting tofumble for it. Who do you think      you     are?     I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls      are     there in this raidingparty?     His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon!     Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie pausedsuddenly. This girl—whatever      that     was—seemed to think him one ofher own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turndelay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before hekilled her. That would make the soldiers accept him!     He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would      I     know how many girls thereare?     Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girlsaid. I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either.Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie?     Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tightwith fear of discovery.     If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisperwas friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then.They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn'tit, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn'thave to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here?     I wouldn't know, Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, andrising. How did you get in?     Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in thedust and they led me here. Where were you?     Scouting around, Roddie said vaguely. How did you know I was a manwhen I came back?     Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well theseandroids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark!     Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could findhim whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps themanhole would help him now to redeem himself....  <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it.     Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then?     Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself.     Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again.     Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun.     The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches.     For a little while he was alone.     Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects.       Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals.     Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself.     How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance.     We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered.     Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it.     The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff.     Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens?     Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees.     He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts.     Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney.     All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust.     Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine.     Wass!     There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening.     The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves.     Are we going straight? Rodney asked.     Of course, Martin growled.     There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number.     Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney?     Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed.     A grate.     Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out!     Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I—     There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate.     The grate groaned upward and stopped.     Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream.     Martin switched off his radio, sick.     He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well?     I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer?     We couldn't do anything for him.     Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us.     So he did, Martin said, very quietly.     Rodney said nothing.     Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end?     Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—!     Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap.     An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it.     Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them.     Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed.   <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place on the surface of a planet that has an abandoned city made of metal. The city is spooky and the inhabitants supposedly died over a million years ago. However, they see things moving strangely while they are in the city suggesting it is inhabited, and something kills Wass within the city during the story.They explore the metal streets of the city, a room with a large switchboard, and seven levels underground. Rodney and Martin explore an underground tunnel that eventually leads them out of the city and to the safety of their fellow crew. "
"<s>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it.     Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then?     Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself.     Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again.     Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun.     The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches.     For a little while he was alone.     Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects.       Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals.     Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself.     How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance.     We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered.     Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it.     The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff.     Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens?     Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees.     He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts.     Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney.     All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust.     Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine.     Wass!     There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening.     The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves.     Are we going straight? Rodney asked.     Of course, Martin growled.     There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number.     Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney?     Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed.     A grate.     Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out!     Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I—     There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate.     The grate groaned upward and stopped.     Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream.     Martin switched off his radio, sick.     He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well?     I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer?     We couldn't do anything for him.     Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us.     So he did, Martin said, very quietly.     Rodney said nothing.     Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end?     Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—!     Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap.     An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it.     Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them.     Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed.   <doc-sep>  DUST UNTO DUST     By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY     It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister     city of metal that glittered malignantly before the     cautious advance of three awed space-scouters.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away.     He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction.     He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant.     Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city.     Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings.     The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north.     Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it?     Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried?     Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like?     Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal.     Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band.     Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too.     Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in.     Rodney nodded.     After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes?     Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for.     Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested.     Could be, Martin said. Let's go in.     The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city.     Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it?     Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is?     Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled.     A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded.     Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all?     I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out.     Rodney said quickly, I mean outside.     Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy.     He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted.     Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here....     Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass?     The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed.     Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street.     Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance.     Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend.     Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination.     Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter?     The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving—     Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man!     Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here.     ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction.     Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That—     Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out!  <doc-sep>They stood before the switchboard again. Martin and Wass side by side,Rodney, still holding his gun, slightly to the rear.     Rodney moved forward a little toward the switches. His breathing wasloud and rather uneven in the radio receivers.     Martin made a final effort. Rodney, it's still almost nine hours totake off. Let's search awhile first. Let this be a last resort.     Rodney jerked his head negatively. No. Now, I know you, Martin.Postpone and postpone until it's too late, and the ship leaves withoutus and we're stranded here to eat seeds and gradually dehydrateourselves and God only knows what else and—     He reached out convulsively and yanked a switch.     Martin leaped, knocking him to the floor. Rodney's gun skittered awaysilently, like a live thing, out of the range of the torches.     The radio receivers impersonally recorded the grating sounds ofRodney's sobs.     Sorry, Martin said, without feeling. He turned quickly. Wass?     The slight, blond man stood unmoving. I'm with you, Martin, but, asa last resort it might be better to be blown sky high than to diegradually—     Martin was watching Rodney, struggling to get up. I agree. As a lastresort. We still have a little time.     Rodney's tall, spare figure looked bowed and tired in the torchlight,now that he was up again. Martin, I—     Martin turned his back. Skip it, Rodney, he said gently.     Water, Wass said thoughtfully. There must be reservoirs under thiscity somewhere.     Rodney said, How does water help us get out?     Martin glanced at Wass, then started out of the switchboard room, notlooking back. It got in and out of the city some way. Perhaps we canleave the same way.     Down the ramp again.     There's another ramp, Wass murmured.     Rodney looked down it. I wonder how many there are, all told.     Martin placed one foot on the metal incline. He angled his torch down,picking out shadowy, geometrical shapes, duplicates of the ones on thepresent level. We'll find out, he said, how many there are.     Eleven levels later Rodney asked, How much time have we now?     Seven hours, Wass said quietly, until take-off.     One more level, Martin said, ignoring the reference to time. I ...think it's the last.     They walked down the ramp and stood together, silent in a dim pool ofartificial light on the bottom level of the alien city.     Rodney played his torch about the metal figures carefully placed aboutthe floor. Martin, what if there are no reservoirs? What if there arecemeteries instead? Or cold storage units? Maybe the switch I pulled—     Rodney! Stop it!     Rodney swallowed audibly. This place scares me....     The first time I was ever in a rocket, it scared me. I was thirteen.     This is different, Wass said. Built-in traps—     They had a war, Martin said.     Wass agreed. And the survivors retired here. Why?     Martin said, They wanted to rebuild. Or maybe this was already builtbefore the war as a retreat. He turned impatiently. How should Iknow?     Wass turned, too, persistent. But the planet was through with them.     In a minute, Martin said, too irritably, we'll have a sentientplanet. From the corner of his eye he saw Rodney start at that. Knockit off, Wass. We're looking for reservoirs, you know.     They moved slowly down the metal avenue, between the twisted shadowshapes, looking carefully about them.     Rodney paused. We might not recognize one.     Martin urged him on. You know what a man-hole cover looks like. Headded dryly, Use your imagination.     They reached the metal wall at the end of the avenue and paused again,uncertain.     Martin swung his flashlight, illuminating the distorted metal shapes.     Wass said, All this had a purpose, once....     We'll disperse and search carefully, Martin said.     I wonder what the pattern was.     ... The reservoirs, Wass. The pattern will still be here for laterexpeditions to study. So will we if we don't find a way to get out.     Their radios recorded Rodney's gasp. Then—Martin! Martin! I thinkI've found something!     Martin began to run. After a moment's hesitation, Wass swung in behindhim.     Here, Rodney said, as they came up to him, out of breath. Here. See?Right here.     Three flashlights centered on a dark, metal disk raised a foot or morefrom the floor.     Well, they had hands. With his torch Wass indicated a small wheel ofthe same metal as everything else in the city, set beside the disk.     From its design Martin assumed that the disk was meant to be graspedand turned. He wondered what precisely they were standing over.     Well, Skipper, are you going to do the honors?     Martin kneeled, grasped the wheel. It turned easily—almost tooeasily—rotating the disk as it turned.     Suddenly, without a sound, the disk rose, like a hatch, on a concealedhinge.     The three men, clad in their suits and helmets, grouped around thesix-foot opening, shining their torches down into the thing thatdrifted and eddied directly beneath them.     Rodney's sudden grip on Martin's wrist nearly shattered the bone.Martin! It's all alive! It's moving!     Martin hesitated long enough for a coil to move sinuously up toward theopening. Then he spun the wheel and the hatch slammed down.     He was shaking.  <doc-sep></s>","They are bound by a sense of duty to the mission. However, when they are put in the predicament of being trapped under the dome, their bond begins to fray and they start fighting with each other about the best means of escape.Rodney and Martin squabble, but both stick together in exploring an underground tunnel filled with dust while Wass elects to go his own way. Wass ultimately appears to sacrifice his life to save Rodney and Martin by returning to the switchboard and opening a grate that allows them to escape from the city. "
"<s>  DUST UNTO DUST     By LYMAN D. HINCKLEY     It was alien but was it dead, this towering, sinister     city of metal that glittered malignantly before the     cautious advance of three awed space-scouters.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Martin set the lifeboat down carefully, with all the attention oneusually exercises in a situation where the totally unexpected hasoccurred, and he and his two companions sat and stared in awed silenceat the city a quarter-mile away.     He saw the dull, black walls of buildings shouldering grimly into thetwilight sky, saw the sheared edge where the metal city ended and thebarren earth began ... and he remembered observing, even before theylanded, the too-strict geometry imposed on the entire construction.     He frowned. The first impression was ... malignant.     Wass, blond and slight, with enough nose for three or four men,unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. Shall we, gentlemen? and witha graceful movement of hand and arm he indicated the waiting city.     Martin led Wass, and the gangling, scarecrow-like Rodney, through thestillness overlaying the barren ground. There was only the twilightsky, and harsh and black against it, the convoluted earth. And thecity. Malignant. He wondered, again, what beings would choose to builda city—even a city like this one—in such surroundings.     The men from the ship knew only the surface facts about this waitinggeometric discovery. Theirs was the eleventh inter-planetary flight,and the previous ten, in the time allowed them for exploration whilethis planet was still close enough to their own to permit a safe returnin their ships, had not spotted the city. But the eleventh expeditionhad, an hour ago, with just thirteen hours left during which a returnflight could be safely started. So far as was known, this was the onlycity on the planet—the planet without any life at all, save tinymosses, for a million years or more. And no matter which direction fromthe city a man moved, he would always be going north.     Hey, Martin! Rodney called through his helmet radio. Martin paused.Wind, Rodney said, coming abreast of him. He glanced toward the blackpile, as if sharing Martin's thoughts. That's all we need, isn't it?     Martin looked at the semi-transparent figures of wind and dustcavorting in the distance, moving toward them. He grinned a little,adjusting his radio. Worried?     Rodney's bony face was without expression. Gives me the creeps, kindof. I wonder what they were like?     Wass murmured, Let us hope they aren't immortal.     Three feet from the edge of the city Martin stopped and stubbed at thesand with the toe of his boot, clearing earth from part of a shiningmetal band.     Wass watched him, and then shoved aside more sand, several feet away.It's here, too.     Martin stood up. Let's try farther on. Rodney, radio the ship, tellthem we're going in.     Rodney nodded.     After a time, Wass said, Here, too. How far do you think it goes?     Martin shrugged. Clear around the city? I'd like to know what itis—was—for.     Defense, Rodney, several yards behind, suggested.     Could be, Martin said. Let's go in.     The three crossed the metal band and walked abreast down a street,their broad soft soled boots making no sound on the dull metal. Theypassed doors and arches and windows and separate buildings. They movedcautiously across five intersections. And they stood in a squaresurrounded by the tallest buildings in the city.     Rodney broke the silence, hesitantly. Not—not very big. Is it?     Wass looked at him shrewdly. Neither were the—well, shall we callthem, people? Have you noticed how low everything is?     Rodney's laughter rose, too. Then, sobering—Maybe they crawled.     A nebulous image, product of childhood's vivid imagination, movedslowly across Martin's mind. All right! he rapped out—and the imagefaded.     Sorry, Rodney murmured, his throat working beneath his lantern jaw.Then—I wonder what it's like here in the winter when there's no lightat all?     I imagine they had illumination of some sort, Martin answered, dryly.If we don't hurry up and get through this place and back to the ship,we're very likely to find out.     Rodney said quickly, I mean outside.     Out there, too, Rodney, they must have had illumination. Martinlooked back along the straight, metal street they'd walked on, and pastthat out over the bleak, furrowed slopes where the ship's lifeboatlay ... and he thought everything outside the city seemed, somehow,from here, a little dim, a little hazy.     He straightened his shoulders. The city was alien, of course, and thatexplained most of it ... most of it. But he felt the black city wassomething familiar, yet twisted and distorted.     Well, Wass said, his nose wrinkling a bit, now that we're here....     Pictures, Martin decided. We have twelve hours. We'll start here.What's the matter, Wass?     The blond man grinned ruefully. I left the camera in the lifeboat.There was a pause. Then Wass, defensively—It's almost as if the citydidn't want to be photographed.     Martin ignored the remark. Go get it. Rodney and I will be somewherealong this street.     Wass turned away. Martin and Rodney started slowly down the wide metalstreet, at right angles to their path of entrance.     Again Martin felt a tug of twisted, distorted familiarity. It wasalmost as if ... they were human up to a certain point, the pointbeing, perhaps, some part of their minds.... Alien things, dark andsubtle, things no man could ever comprehend.     Parallel evolution on two inner planets of the same system? Somewhere,sometime, a common ancestor? Martin noted the shoulder-high doors, theheavier gravity, remembered the inhabitants of the city vanished beforethe thing that was to become man ever emerged from the slime, and hedecided to grin at himself, at his own imagination.     Rodney jerked his scarecrow length about quickly, and a chill sped upMartin's spine. What's the matter?     The bony face was white, the gray eyes were wide. I saw—I thought Isaw—something—moving—     Anger rose in Martin. You didn't, he said flatly, gripping theother's shoulder cruelly. You couldn't have. Get hold of yourself,man!     Rodney stared. The wind. Remember? There isn't any, here.     ... How could there be? The buildings protect us now. It was blowingfrom the other direction.     Rodney wrenched free of Martin's grip. He gestured wildly. That—     Martin! Wass' voice came through the receivers in both their radios.Martin, I can't get out!  <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it.     Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then?     Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself.     Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again.     Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun.     The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches.     For a little while he was alone.     Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects.       Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals.     Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself.     How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance.     We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered.     Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it.     The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff.     Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens?     Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees.     He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts.     Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney.     All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust.     Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine.     Wass!     There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening.     The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves.     Are we going straight? Rodney asked.     Of course, Martin growled.     There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number.     Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney?     Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed.     A grate.     Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out!     Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I—     There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate.     The grate groaned upward and stopped.     Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream.     Martin switched off his radio, sick.     He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well?     I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer?     We couldn't do anything for him.     Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us.     So he did, Martin said, very quietly.     Rodney said nothing.     Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end?     Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—!     Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap.     An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it.     Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them.     Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed.   <doc-sep>  The Beast-Jewel of Mars     By V. E. THIESSEN     The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful.     He'd never been there before, yet already he     was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.     One part of his mind said,      This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there.     Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent.      Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you.       He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying,      Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city     .     He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.     His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.     He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back.     He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real.     He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again.     The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them.     He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.     When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.     When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.     A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers.     The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth!     The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.  <doc-sep></s>","Choosing to search underground for where water might enter and exit the city was an important step for them to find the tunnel that led to their escape. However, Wass’ pulling levers at the switchboard was critical to opening the grate inside the tunnel that actually allowed them to leave. Otherwise, they did not have tools with them that would have likely allowed them to escape in time.If Martin had not forced the team to join together when they were fighting over the control panel the first time, they likely may have never escaped as well."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men.     From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife.     Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion.     Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.     I'm Graybar.     Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.     Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one.     Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited.     Furston laughed.     That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat.     Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof.     He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.     Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.     The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent.     At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here.     The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.     Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations.      III     Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside.     In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck.     Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw.     Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.     Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting.     At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it.     Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck.     We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing.     Kershaw took a long look around.     No trouble in sight. We dig.     They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong.     Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch.     A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it.      A SLIDER EGG      The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around.     Jump! he shouted.     At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward.     Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand.     Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!     Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up?     We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.     On the way.     Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge.     Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain.       Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still.  <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around.     Kershaw! he called. Where are you?     Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him.     Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.     The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this?     Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.     Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg.     Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained.     Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual.     The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out.     I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg.     Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg.     While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.     Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded.     Are you going to have room for me too? he asked.     Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg.     Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly.     You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr.     Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it.     Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa.     Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky.  <doc-sep></s>","Asa Graybar is a biological engineer who studies keeping Slider eggs alive and he is accused of a crime at the opening of the story. He thinks he was framed by Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne’s general manager.He was offered one year as a “changeling” on another planet or 5 years in rehabilitation on Earth. He elects to do the one year, and thinks that he will get into smuggling Slider eggs on Jordan’s planet. Being a changeling is not a highly sought after line of work, but it pays well, and the people who do it have organs and body parts regenerated to better suit specialized tasks.Asa travels to Jordan’s planet on a spaceship with a cellmate, Kershaw, who got caught stealing a Slider egg and is returning to serve more time. When they arrive they are both “converted” into muck men, with the forms of frogs and scaly, pink skin. Their task is to collect Slider eggs and bring them back to the base which is watched over by a warden, Furston.Asa and Kershaw go out together for the first time into the mud so Kershaw can teach Asa how to find Slider eggs. They find one, and are immediately attacked by a Slider that disables one of Kershaw’s legs. Kershaw calls for helicopters to come get them. Tom Dorr is operating the helicopter that comes to collect Kershaw in the field, and demands that Asa also give him the egg they found. Asa refuses to ensure his own safety that they would come back to get him as soon as they dropped off Kershaw.Back at the base Tom Dorr refuses to go back into the field to rescue Asa and gets into an argument with Harriet Hazeltyne (taking over charge of all operations for her father), and storms off. Harriet goes into the field to save Asa herself, but accidentally crashes the helicopter because she is not used to the double force of gravity. Asa is unable to right the helicopter, and they think it is unlikely they will be able to use its machine guns to keep them safe while the Sliders come to feed on the dead Slider they are near to in the night. They must get back to the base somehow, and the story ends with them contemplating how they might do this."
"<s>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men.     From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife.     Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion.     Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.     I'm Graybar.     Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.     Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one.     Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited.     Furston laughed.     That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat.     Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof.     He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.     Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.     The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent.     At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here.     The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.     Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations.      III     Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside.     In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck.     Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw.     Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.     Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting.     At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it.     Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck.     We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing.     Kershaw took a long look around.     No trouble in sight. We dig.     They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong.     Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch.     A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it.      A SLIDER EGG      The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around.     Jump! he shouted.     At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward.     Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand.     Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!     Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up?     We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.     On the way.     Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge.     Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain.       Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still.  <doc-sep>A round trip for the helicopter should have taken no more than twentyminutes, allowing time for Kershaw to be taken out at the settlement.     After an hour passed Asa began to worry. He was sure Dorr would returnfor the egg. Finally he realized that Dorr could locate the eggapproximately by the body of the dead Slider. Dorr could return for theegg any time with some other muck man to dig for it.     Asa pulled down the mouthpiece of his radio.     This is Graybar, calling the helicopter, he said. When are youcoming?     There was no answer except the hum of carrier wave.     If he tried to carry the egg back, Asa knew, Sliders would attack himall along the way. A man had no chance of getting five miles with anegg by himself. He could leave the egg here, of course. Even so hewould be lucky if he got back, following a hazy compass course fromwhich he and Kershaw had certainly deviated on their outward trip.There were no landmarks in this wilderness of bog to help him find hisway. The workers were supposed to home in on radio signals, if theylost their bearings, but Dorr would deny him that help.     What was the night like on Jordan's Planet? Maybe Sliders slept atnight. If he could stay awake, and if he didn't faint from hunger inthis strange new body, and if the Sliders left him alone....     A whirring noise made Asa jump in alarm.     Then he smiled in relief, for it was the helicopter, the blessedhelicopter, coming in over the swamp. But what if it was Dorr, comingback alone to dispose of him without any witnesses? Asa leaped for thecarcass of the dead Slider and took shelter behind it.     No machine-gun blast of rockets came from the helicopter. The bigmachine swooped low dizzily, tilted back in an inexpert attempt tohover, thumped down upon the mud and slid forward. As Asa jumped aside,the landing skids caught against the Slider's body and the helicopterflipped forward on its nose, one of the rotor blades plunging deep intothe mud.     Asa leaped forward in consternation. Not only was his chance of safepassage back to the settlement wrecked, but now he would have theextra burden of taking care of the pilot. When he reached the noseof the helicopter he saw that the pilot, untangling herself from thecontrols to get up, was Harriet Hazeltyne.      IV     Are you hurt? Asa asked her. She reached for his shoulder to steadyherself as she climbed out of the machine.     I guess not, she said. But taking a fall in this gravity is no fun.From the way my face feels I ought to be getting a black eye prettysoon.     What happened?     I made a fool of myself. She made a face back in the direction ofthe settlement. Dorr wasn't going to come after you. He said anyonewho talked back to him should try arguing with the Sliders.     She looked up at the machine-gun on the helicopter.     They feed at night, you know. And they eat their own kind, she said.The Slider you killed would draw them like ants to jam.     Asa glanced around quickly to make sure no Sliders had already come. Heeyed the helicopter with distaste at the thought of what a flimsy fortit would make.     Anyway, Harriet said, I told him he couldn't just leave you hereand we started arguing. I lost my temper. He thought he had brought meto Jordan's Planet on a fancy tour. I told him the real reason I washere was to check up for my father on the way he was running things andthere seemed to be a lot wrong. So he told me very politely I could runthings to suit myself and he walked off.     She shrugged, as if to indicate that she had made a mess of things.     And you took the helicopter by yourself, Asa said, as if he couldhardly believe it yet.     Oh, back on Earth I can make a helicopter do stunts. But I wasn't usedto this gravity. I don't suppose you could make this machine stand upstraight?     Asa tugged at the body of the Slider until he got it off the skids ofthe plane. He pulled with all his strength at the rotor blade sunk inthe mud, but the weight of the helicopter was upon it and the mud heldit with a suction of its own. After a few minutes he had to give up.     We fight off the Sliders, then, she said, as matter of factly as ifthat problem was settled. If it's any comfort, I know how to handlethe machine-gun.     Nope. In this drizzle, at night, the Sliders would be on us beforewe could see them. We've got to try to get back. He stood in thoughtwhile she stared at him patiently. What happened to the other muck menwho went out today? he asked.     They were called in when the 'copter came out the first time. Some ofthem may not have got back yet.  <doc-sep>Asa took a deep breath and looked around.     Kershaw! he called. Where are you?     Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him.     Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.     The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this?     Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.     Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg.     Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained.     Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual.     The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out.     I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg.     Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg.     While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.     Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded.     Are you going to have room for me too? he asked.     Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg.     Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly.     You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr.     Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it.     Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa.     Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky.  <doc-sep></s>","The story opens on Earth and then travels to Jordan’s planet.Jordan’s planet is the place where Asa goes as a changeling to be a muck man. There is a base on Jordan's planet which has a laboratory for converting prisoners into muck men, living quarters and kitchen, and a courtyard with high walls to keep the Sliders out. The surface of the planet is mud and the force of gravity is twice that on Earth. Asa's conversion into a frog-like person is necessary to survive there."
"<s>Asa took a deep breath and looked around.     Kershaw! he called. Where are you?     Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him.     Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.     The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this?     Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.     Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg.     Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained.     Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual.     The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out.     I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg.     Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg.     While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.     Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded.     Are you going to have room for me too? he asked.     Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg.     Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly.     You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr.     Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it.     Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa.     Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky.  <doc-sep>   MUCK MAN     BY FREMONT DODGE     The work wasn't hard, but there were some sacrifices.     You had to give up hope and freedom—and being human!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The girl with the Slider egg glittering in her hair watched thebailiff lead Asa Graybar out of the courtroom. He recognized her asold Hazeltyne's daughter Harriet, no doubt come to see justice done.She didn't have the hothouse-flower look Asa would have expected in agirl whose father owned the most valuable of the planetary franchises.She was not afraid to meet his eye, the eye of a judicially certifiedcriminal. There was, perhaps, a crease of puzzlement in her brow, as ifshe had thought crimes were committed by shriveled, rat-faced types,and not by young biological engineers who still affected crewcuts.     Tom Dorr, Hazeltyne's general manager, was her escort. Asa feltcertain, without proof, that Dorr was the man who had framed him forthe charge of grand theft by secreting a fresh Slider egg in hislaboratory. The older man stared at Asa coldly as he was led out ofthe courtroom and down the corridor back to jail.     Jumpy, Asa's cellmate, took one look at his face as he was put backbehind bars.     Guilty, Jumpy said.     Asa glared at him.     I know, I know, Jumpy said hastily. You were framed. But what's therap?     Five or one.     Take the five, Jumpy advised. Learn basket-weaving in a niceair-conditioned rehab clinic. A year on a changeling deal will seem alot longer, even if you're lucky enough to live through it.     Asa took four steps to the far wall of the cell, stood there brieflywith his head bent and turned to face Jumpy.     Nope, Asa said softly. I'm going into a conversion tank. I'm goingto be a muck man, Jumpy. I'm going out to Jordan's Planet and huntSlider eggs.     Smuggling? It won't work.     Asa didn't answer. The Hazeltyne company had gone after him becausehe had been working on a method of keeping Slider eggs alive. TheHazeltyne company would be happy to see him mark time for five yearsof so-called social reorientation. But if he could get out to Jordan'sPlanet, with his physiology adapted to the environment of that wretchedworld, he could study the eggs under conditions no laboratory couldduplicate. He might even be able to cause trouble for Hazeltyne.     His only problem would be staying alive for a year.  <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men.     From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife.     Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion.     Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.     I'm Graybar.     Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.     Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one.     Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited.     Furston laughed.     That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat.     Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof.     He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.     Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.     The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent.     At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here.     The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.     Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations.      III     Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside.     In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck.     Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw.     Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.     Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting.     At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it.     Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck.     We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing.     Kershaw took a long look around.     No trouble in sight. We dig.     They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong.     Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch.     A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it.      A SLIDER EGG      The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around.     Jump! he shouted.     At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward.     Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand.     Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!     Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up?     We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.     On the way.     Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge.     Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain.       Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still.  <doc-sep></s>","Asa thinks Tom framed him for the crime at the opening of the story. Tom is present on Jordan’s planet when Asa arrives to begin his one year term as a muck man. Tom is providing a tour of Jordan’s planet to Harriet Hazeltyne, who is taking over her father’s operations and wants to investigate how Toms is running things. Tom and Harriet get into an argument on Jordan’s planet and Tom leaves in anger. It is unclear what his final fate is after leaving, though it is likely he will be removed from his post."
"<s>Asa took a deep breath and looked around.     Kershaw! he called. Where are you?     Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him.     Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.     The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this?     Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.     Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg.     Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained.     Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual.     The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out.     I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg.     Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg.     While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.     Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded.     Are you going to have room for me too? he asked.     Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg.     Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly.     You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr.     Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it.     Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa.     Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky.  <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men.     From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife.     Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion.     Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.     I'm Graybar.     Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.     Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one.     Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited.     Furston laughed.     That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat.     Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof.     He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.     Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.     The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent.     At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here.     The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.     Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations.      III     Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside.     In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck.     Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw.     Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.     Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting.     At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it.     Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck.     We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing.     Kershaw took a long look around.     No trouble in sight. We dig.     They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong.     Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch.     A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it.      A SLIDER EGG      The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around.     Jump! he shouted.     At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward.     Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand.     Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!     Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up?     We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.     On the way.     Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge.     Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain.       Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still.  <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner.     Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel.     Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return.     It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.     Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery.     Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance.     It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly.     You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you.     I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders?     Kershaw grinned.     First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale.      II     Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances.     Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests.     Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness.     This is it! he thought in panic.     He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now.     When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes.     Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings.     It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes.     Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head.     This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself.     It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep.     He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed.     Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy.     Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head.     That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside.     Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion.  <doc-sep></s>","They meet as cellmates on their way to Jordan’s planet to convert to muck men. They convert into frog-like forms together. Kershaw is assigned to pick up where he left off as a return prisoner and Asa is taught how to operate in his new body.Kershaw teaches Asa the ropes of how to collect slider eggs as a muck man. One muck man is killed for about every 6 Slider eggs that are found, and it is extremely dangerous. During their first time out they have to fight a Slider and Kershaw breaks his leg, relying on Asa to save him. This task bonds them together as they must trust each other with their lives."
"<s>Asa took a deep breath and looked around.     Kershaw! he called. Where are you?     Over here. Kershaw stood briefly above the weeds and fell back again.Asa leaped over to him.     Thanks, Kershaw said. Muck men stick together. You'll make a goodone. I wouldn't have had a chance. My leg's busted.     The helicopter ought to be here pretty soon, Asa said. He looked overat the dead Slider and shook his head. Tell me, what are the odds ongetting killed doing this?     Last time I was here there was about one mucker killed for every sixeggs brought out. Of course you're not supposed to stand there admiringthe eggs like I did while a Slider comes up on you.     Asa hopped over to the egg, which was still full of a dancing radiancewhere it rested on the mud. He scooped a hole in the muck and buriedthe egg.     Just in case there are any more Sliders around, he explained.     Makes no difference, said Kershaw, pointing upward. Here comes the'copter, late as usual.     The big machine circled them, hovered to inspect the dead Slider, andsettled down on broad skids. Through the transparent nose Asa could seeTom Dorr and Harriet Hazeltyne. The company manager swung the door openand leaned out.     I see you took care of the Slider, he said. Hand over the egg.     Kershaw has a broken leg, Asa said. I'll help him in and then I'llget the egg.     While Kershaw grabbed the door frame to help pull himself into thehelicopter, Asa got under his companion's belly and lifted him by thewaist. He hadn't realized before just how strong his new body was.Kershaw, as a muck man, would have weighed close to three hundredpounds on Earth, close to six hundred here.     Dorr made no move to help, but the girl reached under Kershaw'sshoulder and strained to get him in. Once he was inside, Asa saw, thecabin was crowded.     Are you going to have room for me too? he asked.     Not this trip, Dorr answered. Now give me the egg.     Asa didn't hesitate. The egg stays with me, he said softly.     You do what I tell you, mucker, said Dorr.     Nope. I want to make sure you come back. Asa turned his head toHarriet. You see, Miss Hazeltyne, I don't trust your friend. You mightask him to tell you about it.     Dorr stared at him with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he smiled in a way thatworried Asa.     Whatever you say, Graybar, Dorr said. He turned to the controls. Inanother minute the helicopter was in the sky.  <doc-sep>They went into a courtyard partly covered by a roof projecting fromthe Hazeltyne company's dome settlement. The far half of the courtyardwas open to the gray drizzle that fell almost ceaselessly from the skyof Jordan's Planet and turned most of its surface into marsh and mudflats. A high wall enclosed the far portion of the courtyard. Rangedalong the wall were thirty stalls for muck men.     From fifty yards across the courtyard a muck man bounded over to themin two leaps. Attached to a harness across his shoulders and chest werea gun and a long knife.     Names? he growled. He was a foot taller than Graybar and bigeverywhere in proportion.     Kershaw. I'm back, Furston.     I'm Graybar.     Kershaw again? Just start in where you left off, sucker. Come on,you. He pointed to Asa and leaped to the open portion of the courtyard.     Do what he says, Kershaw whispered to Graybar. He's sort of a trustyand warden and parole officer rolled into one.     Asa was put through a series of exercises to get him used to hisdistorted body, to teach him how to leap and how to dig. He was shownhow to operate the radio he would carry and how to fire the pencil-slimrockets of this gun. Finally he was told to eat a few berries from anative vine. He did so and immediately vomited.     Furston laughed.     That's to remind you you're still a man, Furston said, grinning.Everything that grows on this planet is poison. So if you got anyideas of hiding out till your term is up, forget 'em. Right here iswhere you eat.     Asa turned without a word and hopped feebly away from Furston. Helifted his head to breathe deeply and saw two humans watching him froman observation tower on the roof.     He leaped twenty feet into the air for a closer look.     Gazing at him with repugnance, after witnessing the end of his sessionwith Furston, were Harriet Hazeltyne and general manager Tom Dorr.     The girl's presence merely puzzled Asa, but Dorr's being here worriedhim. Dorr had tried to get rid of him once and was now in an excellentposition to make the riddance permanent.     At supper that night, squatting on the ground beside a low table withthe dozen other muck men operating from the dome, Asa asked what thetwo were doing out here.     The girl will inherit this racket some day, won't she? asked one ofthe others. She wants to see what kind of suckers are making her rich.     Maybe that guy Dorr brought her along to show her what a big wheelhe is, said one of the others. Just hope he doesn't take over theoperations.      III     Next morning Furston passed out guns, knives, radios, and pouches tocarry any eggs the muck men found. He gave each man a compass andassigned the sectors to be worked during the day. Finally he calledGraybar aside.     In case you don't like it here, Furston said, you can get a weekknocked off your sentence for every egg you bring in. Now get out thereand work that muck.     Furston sent Graybar and Kershaw out together so that the veteran couldshow Asa the ropes. Asa had already learned that the wall around thecourtyard was to keep Sliders out, not muck men in. He leaped over itand hopped along after Kershaw.     Feet slapping against the mud, they went about five miles from theHazeltyne station, swimming easily across ponds too broad to jump. Themud, if not precisely as pleasant to the touch as chinchilla fur, wasnot at all uncomfortable, and the dripping air caressed their skinslike a summer breeze back on Earth. Tiny, slippery creatures skiddedand splashed out of their way. Finally Kershaw stopped. His experiencedeye had seen a trail of swamp weeds crushed low into the mud.     Keep your eyes open, Kershaw said. There's a Slider been around herelately. If you see something like an express train headed our way,start shooting.     At each leap along the trail they peered quickly around. They saw noSliders, but this meant little, for the beasts lived under the mud asmuch as on top of it.     Kershaw halted again when they came to a roughly circular area some tenyards in diameter where the weeds had been torn out and lay rotting inthe muck.     We're in luck, he said as Asa skidded to a stop at his side. An eggwas laid somewhere here within the last week. These places are hard tospot when the new weeds start growing.     Kershaw took a long look around.     No trouble in sight. We dig.     They started at the center of the cleared area, shoveling up great gobsof mud with their hands and flinging them out of the clearing. Usuallya muck man dug in a spiral out from the center, but Graybar and Kershawdug in gradually widening semi-circles opposite each other. They hadto dig four feet deep, and it was slow going until they had a pitbig enough to stand in. Each handful of mud had to be squeezed gentlybefore it was thrown away, to make sure it didn't conceal an egg. As heworked, Asa kept thinking what an inefficient system it was. Everythingabout the operation was wrong.     Got it! Kershaw shouted. He leaped out of the pit and started wipingslime off a round object the size of a baseball. Asa jumped out towatch.     A big one, Kershaw said. He held it, still smeared with traces ofmud, lovingly to his cheek, and then lifted it to eye level. Just lookat it.      A SLIDER EGG      The egg was flashing with a mad radiance, like a thousand diamondsbeing splintered under a brilliant sun. Static crackled in Asa'searphones and he thought of what Kershaw had said, that thescintillation of an egg was an effect of its calls to a mother Sliderfor help. Asa looked around.     Jump! he shouted.     At the edge of the clearing a segmented length of greenish blackscales, some two feet thick and six feet high, had reared up out of theweeds. The top segment was almost all mouth, already opened to show rowupon row of teeth. Before Asa could draw his gun the Slider loweredits head to the ground, dug two front flippers into the mud and shotforward.     Asa leaped with all his strength, sailing far out of the clearing.While he was still in the air he snapped the mouthpiece of his radiodown from where it was hinged over his head. As he landed he turnedinstantly, his gun in his hand.     Calling the 'copter! he spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Kershawand Graybar, sector eight, five miles out. Hurry!     Graybar? asked a voice in his earphone. What's up?     We've got an egg but a Slider wants it back.     On the way.     Asa hopped back to the clearing. Kershaw must have been bowled over bythe Slider's first rush, for he was trying to hop on one leg as if theother had been broken. The egg lay flickering on top of the mud whereKershaw had dropped it. The Slider, eight flippers on each side workingmadly, was twisting its thirty feet of wormlike body around for anothercharge.     Aiming hastily, Asa fired a rocket at the monster's middle segment. Therocket smashed through hard scales and exploded in a fountain of grayflesh. The Slider writhed, coating its wound in mud, and twisted towardAsa. He leaped to one side, firing from the air and missing, and sawthe Slider turn toward the patch of weeds where he would land. His legswere tensed to leap again the moment he hit the mud, but he saw theSlider would be on top of him before he could escape. As he landed hethrust his gun forward almost into the mouth of the creature and firedagain.       Even as he was knocked aside into the muck, Asa's body was showeredwith shreds of alien flesh scattered by the rocket's explosion.Desperately pushing himself to his feet, he saw the long headless bodyshiver and lie still.  <doc-sep>Since it was cheaper to transport a normal human than to rig specialenvironments in a spaceship, every planet operated its own conversionchambers. On the space freighter that carried him from Earth AsaGraybar was confined to a small cabin that was opened only for a guardto bring meals and take out dirty dishes. He was still a prisoner.     Sometimes he could hear voices in the passageway outside, and onceone of them sounded like a woman's. But since women neither served onspaceships nor worked in the dome settlements on harsher worlds, hedecided it was his imagination. He might have been dead cargo for allhe learned about space travel.     Nevertheless his time was not wasted. He had as a companion, orcellmate, another convict who had elected conversion to muck man. Moreimportant, his companion had done time on Jordan's Planet before andhad wanted to return.     It's the Slider eggs, explained Kershaw, the two-time loser. Theones you see on Earth knock your eyes out, but they've already begunto die. There's nothing like a fresh one. And I'm not the first togo crazy over them. When I was reconverted and got home I had ninethousand dollars waiting for me. That'll buy a two-year-old egg thatflashes maybe four times a day. So I stole a new one and got caught.     Asa had held a Slider egg in his hand as he gazed into it. He couldunderstand. The shell was clear as crystal, taut but elastic, whilethe albumen was just as clear around the sparkling network of organicfilaments that served as a yolk. Along these interior threads playedtiny flashes of lightning, part of some unexplained process of life.Electrical instruments picked up static discharges from the egg, butthe phenomenon remained a mystery.     Hardly anyone faced with the beauty of a Slider's egg bothered toquestion its workings. For a few expectant moments there would be onlyrandom, fitful gleamings, and then there would be a wild coruscation oflight, dancing from one filament to the next in a frenzy of brilliance.     It took about four years for a Slider egg to die. Beauty, rarity andfading value made the eggs a luxury item like nothing the world hadever seen. If Asa had found a means of keeping them alive it would havemade him wealthy at the expense of the Hazeltyne monopoly.     You know what I think? Kershaw asked. I think those flashes arethe egg calling its momma. They sparkle like a million diamonds whenyou scoop one out of the muck, and right away a Slider always comesswooping out of nowhere at you.     I've been meaning to ask you, Asa said. How do you handle theSliders?     Kershaw grinned.     First you try to catch it with a rocket. If you miss you start leapingfor home. All this time you're broadcasting for help, you understand.When the Slider catches you, you leap up while it buries its jaws inthe mud where you were just standing. You dig your claws in its backand hang on while it rolls around in the mud. Finally, if the 'coptercomes—and if they don't shoot off your head by mistake—you live totell the tale.      II     Asa Graybar kept his normal form on Jordan's Planet just long enough tolearn the discomfort of double gravity. He was told he needed anotherphysical examination and was taken right in to a doctor. His heart waspounding to keep his blood circulating on this massive world, but thedoctor had apparently learned to make allowances.     Swallow this, said the doctor after making a series of tests.     Asa swallowed the capsule. Two minutes later he felt himself beginningto lose consciousness.     This is it! he thought in panic.     He felt someone ease him back down onto a wheeled stretcher. Beforeconsciousness faded completely he realized that no one got a chanceto back out of becoming a changeling, that he was on his way to theconversion tank right now.     When he finally awoke he felt well rested and very comfortable. But fora long time he was afraid to open his eyes.     Come on, Graybar, said a deep, booming voice. Let's test our wings.     It was not Kershaw's voice, but it had to be Kershaw. Asa opened hiseyes.     Everyone had seen pictures of muck men. It was different having onestand beside you. Kershaw looked much like an enormous frog except thathis head was still mostly human. He was sitting on webbed feet, hislower legs bent double under huge thighs, and his trunk tilted forwardso that his arms dangled to the ground. The arms were as thick aroundas an ordinary man's legs. The hands had become efficient scoops, withbroad fingers webbed to the first joint and tipped with spade-likeclaws. The skin was still pinkish but had become scaly. Not a thread ofhair showed anywhere on the body, not even on the head.     This, Asa realized, was what he looked like himself.     It would have been more bearable if the head had not retained strongtraces of humanity. The nostrils flared wide and the jaws hardlyemerged from the neck, but the ears were human ears and the eyes, underthose horny ridges, were human eyes. Asa felt sure that the eyes couldstill weep.     He started to walk forward and tipped over on his side. Kershaw laughed.     Come to daddy, babykins, Kershaw said, holding out his hands. Onlytry hopping this time. And take it easy.     Asa pushed himself upright with one arm and tried a small hop. Nerveand muscle coordination was perfect. He found himself leaping as highas Kershaw's head.     That's the way, Kershaw said approvingly. Now get this on and we'llgo outside.     Asa snapped on a belt and breech cloth combination that had flaps offabric dangling from the belt in front and behind. He followed asKershaw pushed open a sliding door to lead the way out of the roomwhere they had been left to revive from conversion.  <doc-sep></s>","The Slider egg is a captivating object that has a clear shell, and light of various colors flash inside it. They are laid by Sliders on Jordan’s planet and are collected by prisoners that are stationed there. The eggs only live for about 4 years, which makes them in demand. If they could be stabilized to live longer they would be even more valuable.Their use is never discussed and the people in the story do not reveal why they are so valuable. Asa is working on a method to keep the eggs alive for longer at the opening of the story, but does not continue in that task during the plot."
"<s>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","As the story opens, Retief, the Minister to Flamme, is meeting with other members of the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne, including Under-Secretary Sternwheeler and Deputy Under-Secretary Magnan. The men discuss Retief’s plan to visit Flamme in person to deal with the growing conflict between the Boyars, who have been living on Flamme for sixty years, and the Aga Kagans. The latter recently arrived on Flamme and began taking over land that the Boyars are farming. The Aga Kagans appear to be goat herders, living in tents and allowing their goats to graze on land that the Boyars use for crops, but in reality, the Aga Kagans have weapons, including 40 mm infinite repeaters and rocket launchers. Retief wants to offer the Boyars the support of the Corps, but Sternwheeler will only go so far as to authorize a “stiffly worded Protest Note.” With foresight, Retief has already drafted a note because he anticipated the Corps would respond with paperwork rather than action. 		Retief travels to Flamme and meets with Georges Duror, the Boyar Chef d’Regime. Georges indicates that he has been holding back his men who want to attack the Aga Kagans for taking their land, and Retief reminds Georges that if the Boyars act without backing from the Corps, they are likely to be destroyed. Retief also tells Georges that the goats and tents are just for show; the Aga Kagans have a modern navy and bullet-proof cloaks, and on their home planet, they travel via modern helis and ground cars. Georges seems discouraged by this news, but Retief reminds him he has the Note and asks him to give diplomacy a chance.	Retief and Georges travel to meet with the head of the Aga Kagans to deliver the Note. On the way, Georges points out the progress that the Boyars have made on Flamme. They stop their air-car when Georges sees a herd of goats in a grain field, and three Aga Kagan horsemen confront them. Retief asks them to take him and Georges to their leader, and they do. Retief introduces Georges as from the Planetary government to the leader, Stanley, and offers to read the Note. He begins with a series of titles until Stanley tells him to skip them. Retief flips two pages and begins a long, legalistic description of relocated people until Stanley cuts him off. Stanley says the Boyars will be accused of imperialism if they attack the Aga Kagans but offers to allow the Boyars to stay until they can make other arrangements. Stanley reveals that the Aga Kagans are slowly creating an empire, and he expects the Corps won’t do anything about it. Georges and Stanley exchange heated insults. "
"<s>The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry river bedand across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand to a greenoasis set with canopies.     The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense tent ofglistening black. Before the tent armed men lounged under a pennantbearing a lion      couchant     in crimson on a field verte.     Get out, Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, theirdrawn sabers catching sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from thecar onto rich rugs spread on the grass. They followed the ferociousgesture of the bearded man through the opening into a perfumed interiorof luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in the air, and thestrumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of sound behindthe decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end ofthe room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently cladman with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape intohis mouth. He wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offeredby a handmaiden, belched loudly and looked the callers over.     Blackbeard cleared his throat. Down on your faces in the presence ofthe Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of East and West.     Sorry, Retief said firmly. My hay-fever, you know.     The reclining giant waved a hand languidly.     Never mind the formalities, he said. Approach.     Retief and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew towardthem. The reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on anothersilken scarf and held up a hand.     Night and the horses and the desert know me, he said in resonanttones. Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen— Hepaused, wrinkled his nose and sneezed again. Turn off that damnedair-conditioner, he snapped.     He settled himself and motioned the bearded man to him. The twoexchanged muted remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked hishead and withdrew to the rear.     Excellency, Retief said, I have the honor to present M. GeorgesDuror, Chef d'Regime of the Planetary government.     Planetary government? The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the rug. Mymen have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they're indistress, I'll see about a distribution of goat-meat.     It is the punishment of the envious to grieve at anothers' plenty,Retief said. No goat-meat will be required.     Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben Abdallah KatibJelebi, the Aga Kaga said. I know a few old sayings myself. Forexample, 'A Bedouin is only cheated once.'     We have no such intentions, Excellency, Retief said. Is it notwritten, 'Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you'?     I've had some unhappy experiences with strangers, the Aga Kaga said.It is written in the sands that all strangers are kin. Still, he whovisits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated.      III     Handmaidens brought cushions, giggled and fled. Retief and Georgessettled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence.       We have come to bear tidings from the Corps DiplomatiqueTerrestrienne, Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offeredgrapes.     Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge, the Aga Kagasaid. What brings the CDT into the picture?     The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern, Retief said.Whereas the words of kings....     Very well, I concede the point. The Aga Kaga waved a hand at theserving maids. Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph.These are mere diplomats. They are men of words, not deeds.     The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after him.     Now, the Aga Kaga said. Let's drop the wisdom of the ages andget down to the issues. Not that I don't admire your repertoire ofplatitudes. How do you remember them all?     Diplomats and other liars require good memories, said Retief. Butas you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I'm here to effect asettlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetaryauthorities. I have here a Note, which I'm conveying on behalf of theSector Under-Secretary. With your permission, I'll read it.     Go ahead. The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the floor,eased a bottle from under the couch and reached for glasses.     The Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to hisExcellency, the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, HereditarySheik, Emir of the—     Yes, yes. Skip the titles.     Retief flipped over two pages.     ... and with reference to the recent relocation of persons under thejurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor to point out that theterritories now under settlement comprise a portion of that area,hereinafter designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms ofthe Agreement entered into by his Excellency's predecessor, and asreferenced in Sector Ministry's Notes numbers G-175846573957-b andX-7584736 c-1, with particular pertinence to that body designated inthe Revised Galactic Catalogue, Tenth Edition, as amended, VolumeNine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise referred to hereinafter asFlamme—     Come to the point, the Aga Kaga cut in. You're here to lodge acomplaint that I'm invading territories to which someone else laysclaim, is that it? He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks and lit one.Well, I've been expecting a call. After all, it's what you gentlemenare paid for. Cheers.     Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things, Retief said.     Call me Stanley, the Aga Kaga said. The other routine is just toplease some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative membersof my government. They're still gnawing their beards and kickingthemselves because their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemyand got themselves stranded in a cultural dead end. This charade issupposed to prove they were right all along. However, I've no timeto waste in neurotic compensations. I have places to go and deeds toaccomplish.     At first glance, Retief said, it looks as though the places arealready occupied, and the deeds are illegal.  <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it?     Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats.     The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport.     Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work.     The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions.     You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression—     Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism.     Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you—     Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it.     We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle!     Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light.     Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges.     It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements.     And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone!  <doc-sep>That would have been a mistake, said Retief. The Aga Kagans aretough customers. They're active on half a dozen worlds at the moment.They've been building up for this push for the last five years. Ashow of resistance by you Boyars without Corps backing would be aninvitation to slaughter—with the excuse that you started it.     So what are we going to do? Sit here and watch these goat-herders takeover our farms and fisheries?     Those goat-herders aren't all they seem. They've got a first-classmodern navy.     I've seen 'em. They camp in goat-skin tents, gallop around onanimal-back, wear dresses down to their ankles—     The 'goat-skin' tents are a high-polymer plastic, made in the samefactory that turns out those long flowing bullet-proof robes youmention. The animals are just for show. Back home they use helis andground cars of the most modern design.     The Chef d'Regime chewed his cigar.     Why the masquerade?     Something to do with internal policies, I suppose.     So we sit tight and watch 'em take our world away from us. That's whatI get for playing along with you, Retief. We should have clobberedthese monkeys as soon as they set foot on our world.     Slow down, I haven't finished yet. There's still the Note.     I've got plenty of paper already. Rolls and rolls of it.     Give diplomatic processes a chance, said Retief. The Note hasn'teven been delivered yet. Who knows? We may get surprising results.     If you expect me to supply a runner for the purpose, you're out ofluck. From what I hear, he's likely to come back with his ears stuffedin his hip pocket.     I'll deliver the Note personally, Retief said. I could use a coupleof escorts—preferably strong-arm lads.     The Chef d'Regime frowned, blew out a cloud of smoke. I wasn't kiddingabout these Aga Kagans, he said. I hear they have some nasty habits.I don't want to see you operated on with the same knives they use toskin out the goats.     I'd be against that myself. Still, the mail must go through.     Strong-arm lads, eh? What have you got in mind, Retief?     A little muscle in the background is an old diplomatic custom, Retiefsaid.     The Chef d'Regime stubbed out his cigar thoughtfully. I used to be apretty fair elbow-wrestler myself, he said. Suppose I go along...?     That, said Retief, should lend just the right note of solidarity toour little delegation. He hitched his chair closer. Now, depending onwhat we run into, here's how we'll play it....      II     Eight miles into the rolling granite hills west of the capital, ablack-painted official air-car flying the twin flags of Chief of Stateand Terrestrial Minister skimmed along a foot above a pot-holed road.Slumped in the padded seat, the Boyar Chef d'Regime waved his cigarglumly at the surrounding hills.     Fifty years ago this was bare rock, he said. We've bred specialstrains of bacteria here to break down the formations into soil, and wefollowed up with a program of broad-spectrum fertilization. We plannedto put the whole area into crops by next year. Now it looks like thegoats will get it.     Will that scrubland support a crop? Retief said, eyeing thelichen-covered knolls.     Sure. We start with legumes and follow up with cereals. Wait until yousee this next section. It's an old flood plain, came into productionthirty years ago. One of our finest—     The air-car topped a rise. The Chef dropped his cigar and half rose,with a hoarse yell. A herd of scraggly goats tossed their heads among astand of ripe grain. The car pulled to a stop. Retief held the Boyar'sarm.     Keep calm, Georges, he said. Remember, we're on a diplomaticmission. It wouldn't do to come to the conference table smelling ofgoats.     Let me at 'em! Georges roared. I'll throttle 'em with my bare hands!     A bearded goat eyed the Boyar Chef sardonically, jaw working. Look atthat long-nosed son! The goat gave a derisive bleat and took anothermouthful of ripe grain.     Did you see that? Georges yelled. They've trained the son of a—     Chin up, Georges, Retief said. We'll take up the goat problem alongwith the rest.     I'll murder 'em!     Hold it, Georges. Look over there.     A hundred yards away, a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped a rise,paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then gallopeddown the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaksbillowing out behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-goldengrain, cutting three narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep fromthe ridge to the air-car where Retief and the Chef d'Regime hovered,waiting.     Georges scrambled for the side of the car. Just wait 'til I get myhands on him!     Retief pulled him back. Sit tight and look pleased, Georges. Nevergive the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you're a goatlover—and hand me one of your cigars.     The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a clatter ofpebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust. Retiefpeeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed, at it and thumbed it alight. Hedrew at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke and glanced casually at thetrio of Aga Kagan cavaliers.     Peace be with you, he intoned in accent-free Kagan. May your shadowsnever grow less.  <doc-sep></s>","The two men have dealt with each other prior to the events in the story; Retief addresses Georges by his first name, so they know each other fairly well. However, Retief’s position is higher than Georges’s position. Retief works for the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne; Georges works for the Planetary government. Retief knows information about the Aga Kagans that Georges doesn’t know, such as the fact that they are armed, have bulletproof cloaks, and have modern technology on their home planet. He has advised Georges about handling the situation with the Aga Kagans, urging him to prevent the Boyars from attacking the Aga Kagans, and Georges trusts Retief to secure assistance for them. Retief is sympathetic to the Boyars and their situation, trying to persuade Under-Secretary Sternwheeler to support them. When Retief tells Georges that he will personally deliver the Note to the Aga Kagans, Georges wants to help Retief and volunteers to go with him; Retief agrees. It is Retief who develops the plan for handling the Aga Kagans. Georges is impulsive, which leads Retief to keep watch on him. When they encounter the goats in the grain field, Retief has to convince Georges not to hurt the animals, and when the horsemen ride through the grain, Retief has to hold him back again. Retief is calmer in stressful situations and reminds Georges of their strategy: to make their flattery sound like insults and their insults sound like flattery. Georges seems unsure of himself and comments that he should have learned more about their habits before accompanying Retief. Retief has to translate what the Aga Kagans say for Georges in order for him to know what is going on. When the two men meet with Stanley, Retief maintains his calm demeanor, while Georges loses his temper."
"<s>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds.     She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool.     She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas.       She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone.     Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think.     There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy.     Where was he?     Who was Swarts?     What was the purpose of the tests he was being given?     It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers.     It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass.     This might be somewhere in Africa....     He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing.     Venus, the most beautiful of the planets.     Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its      alter ego     of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend....     Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe.     Last night Venus hadn't been there.     Venus was a morning star just now....       Just now!       He realized the truth in that moment.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep></s>","The story’s beginning takes place at the headquarters for the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne where Retief works, but the rest of the story takes place on the planet Flamme. Sixty years earlier, the Boyars settled on Flamme and set about making it suitable for farming by clearing the jungle, descumming the seas, irrigating the deserts, and setting out forests. For sixty years, the Boyars inhabited the planet by themselves, with only the saurian wildlife presenting a danger to them. Flamme is now a thriving planet. It has a Government House with comfortable lounge furniture, waiters in white jackets, colorful flowers, a lake, a lawn, and colorful flowerbeds. It also has beautiful sunsets. Outside the capital, there are rolling hills of granite. Flamme’s main industry seems to be agriculture; fifty years ago they had bare rock, but they bred special strains of bacteria that broke the rock down to soil where they raised legumes and then grains. The Boyars also have oyster breeding beds. There are roads, although they have pot-holes, and air-cars for transportation. The Aga Kaban headquarters is a large black tent featuring air conditioning and a pennant featuring a lion “couchant in crimson on a field verte.” It has the smell of incense, and someone is playing stringed instruments inside. There are colorful decorations in gold, blue, silver, and green. The Aga Kaba are accustomed to the finer things in life; Stanley even blows his nose on silk cloth. Their foods include grapes, oranges, and bananas, and their beverages include whiskey. Everything about the Aga Kaba’s leader’s tent suggests wealth and luxury."
"<s>We played. Tune after tune.John knew them all, from thelatest pop melodies to a swing versionof the classic      Rhapsody of TheStars     . He was a quiet guy duringthe next couple of hours, and gettingmore than a few words fromhim seemed as hard as extracting atooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—Imean, his      Zloomph     —with a dreamyexpression in those watery eyes,staring at nothing.     But after one number he studiedFat Boy's clarinet for a moment.Nice clarinet, he mused. Has anunusual hole in the front.     Fat Boy scratched the back ofhis head. You—you mean here?Where the music comes out?     John Smith nodded. Unusual.     Hummm, I thought again.     Awhile later I caught him eyeingmy piano keyboard. What'sthe matter, John?     He pointed.     Oh, there, I said. A cigarettefell out of my ashtray, burnt a holein the key. If The Eye sees it, he'llswear at me in seven languages.     Even there, he said softly,even there....     There was no doubt about it.John Smith was peculiar, but hewas the best bass man this side of amusician's Nirvana.     It didn't take a genius to figureout our situation. Item one: Goon-Face'scountenance had evidencedan excellent imitation of Mephistophelesbefore John began to play.Item two: Goon-Face had beamedlike a kitten with a quart of creamafter John began to play.     Conclusion: If we wanted tokeep eating, we'd have to persuadeJohn Smith to join our combo.     At intermission I said, Howabout a drink, John? Maybe a shotof wine-syrup?     He shook his head.     Then maybe a Venusian fizz?     His grunt was negative.     Then some old-fashioned beer?     He smiled. Yes, I      like     beer.     I escorted him to the bar and assistedhim in his arduous climb ontoa stool.     John, I ventured after he'dtaken an experimental sip, wherehave you been hiding? A guy likeyou should be playing every night.     John yawned. Just got here. FiguredI might need some money soI went to the union. Then I workedon my plan.     Then you need a job. Howabout playing with us steady? Welike your style a lot.     He made a long, low hummingsound which I interpreted as anexpression of intense concentration.I don't know, he finally drawled.     It'd be a steady job, John. Inspirationstruck me. And listen, Ihave an apartment. It's got everything,solar shower, automatic chef,'copter landing—if we ever get a'copter. Plenty of room there fortwo people. You can stay with meand it won't cost you a cent. Andwe'll even pay you over unionwages.     His watery gaze wandered lazilyto the bar mirror, down to the glitteringarray of bottles and then outto the dance floor.     He yawned again and spokeslowly, as if each word were a leadenweight cast reluctantly from histongue:     No, I don't ... care much ...about playing.     What      do     you like to do, John?     His string-bean of a body stiffened.I like to study ancient history ...and I must work on myplan.     Oh Lord, that plan again!     I took a deep breath. Tell meabout it, John. It      must     be interesting.     He made queer clicking noiseswith his mouth that reminded meof a mechanical toy being woundinto motion. The whole foundationof this or any other culture isbased on the history of all the timedimensions, each interwoven withthe other, throughout the ages. Andthe holes provide a means of studyingall of it first hand.       Oh, oh     , I thought.      But you stillhave to eat. Remember, you stillhave to eat.       Trouble is, he went on, thereare so many holes in this universe.     Holes? I kept a straight face.     Certainly. Look around you. Allyou see is holes. These beer bottlesare just holes surrounded by glass.The doors and windows—they'reholes in walls. The mine tunnelsmake a network of holes under thedesert. Caves are holes, animals livein holes, our faces have holes,clothes have holes—millions andmillions of holes!     I winced and thought, humorhim because you gotta eat, yougotta eat.     His voice trembled with emotion.Why, they're everywhere. They'rein pots and pans, in pipes, in rocketjets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholesand well holes, and shoelaceholes. There are doughnutholes and stocking holes and woodpeckerholes and cheese holes.Oceans lie in holes in the earth,and rivers and canals and valleys.The craters of the Moon are holes.Everything is—     But, John, I said as patiently aspossible, what have these holesgot to do with you?     He glowered at me as if I wereunworthy of such a confidence.What have they to do with me?he shrilled. I can't find the rightone—that's what!     I closed my eyes. Which particularhole are you looking for, John?     He was speaking rapidly againnow.     I was hurrying back to the Universitywith the      Zloomph     to provea point of ancient history to thosefools. They don't believe that instrumentswhich make music actuallyexisted before the tapes! Itwas dark—and some fool researcherhad forgotten to set a force-fieldover the hole—I fell through.     I closed my eyes. Now wait aminute. Did you drop something,lose it in the hole—is that why youhave to find it?     Oh I didn't lose anything important,he snapped,       just     my owntime dimension. And if I don't getback they will think I couldn't provemy theory, that I'm ashamed tocome back, and I'll be discredited.     His chest sagged for an instant.Then he straightened. But there'sstill time for my plan to work out—withthe relative difference takeninto account. Only I get so tiredjust thinking about it.     Yes, I can see where thinkingabout it would tire any one.     He nodded. But it can't be toofar away.     I'd like to hear more about it,I said. But if you're not going toplay with us—     Oh, I'll play with you, hebeamed. I can talk to      you     .      You     understand.     Thank heaven!  <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights.     People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.     There was a roar of applause from the      Satellite     audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued:     As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand      planetoles     .     One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.     From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais.     The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater:           Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury?          Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly:     Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car.     And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner.     It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things.     The audience in the      Satellite     seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete.     Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction.     When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred.     A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era.     Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth.     Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets.     Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted.     In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes.     Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?     I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down.     The I.P. men aren't strong enough.     She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips.     What do you mean?  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","The history of Flamme itself is of great relevance to its value to both the Boyars and the Aga Kagans. When the Boyars settled the planet sixty years ago, it was habitable but unable to support much agriculture. They have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, clearing jungles, descumming seas, irrigating deserts, and planting forests. Fifty years ago, the Boyars learned how to breed a special strain of bacteria that breaks down the granite that covered much of the surface. The granite breaks down to soil, and the Boyars add broad-spectrum fertilizer to make the land arable. The Boyars now have many fields of crops and are continuing to develop new sections for more. Their many years of intensive work in creating farming land and growing crops gives them a vested interest in their settlement.The Aga Kagans are involved in empire-building. They have sent what appear to be goat herders and fishermen to Flamme to begin taking over the land. The goat herders are all male and have rocket launchers. They present a false appearance as homesteaders who lack access to modern technology; in reality, their tents are high-polymer plastic, and their robes are bullet-proof. On their home planet, they have helis and ground cars. The homesteaders set up camp in the middle of farm fields, allow their goats to graze on the crops, and cook their sheep’s brains over dung fires. The fishermen are actually the Aga Kagan navy who come equipped with 40 mm infinite repeaters. The CDT knows that the Aga Kagans have been using this same method of invasion for the past five years in six other worlds. The Aga Kagans hide their modern technology in the places they are invading to dupe the people they are intruding on and to please the older conservatives in their government. The Aga Kagans’ approach to empire-building is based on their knowledge of Earth history. While their society has modern technology, their false appearance of third world trappings can be used to justify their invasions into “more advanced” societies. Stanley admits the Aga Kagans move into an area after others have done the hard work of building the community and civilization so that the Aga Kagans can enjoy the fruits of the others’ labors. By appearing to be a third world civilization, the Aga Kagans can defend their actions and gain empathy with a claim of “legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerly exploited peoples.” Stanley also acknowledges his familiarity with empire-builders on Earth and claims he won’t make their mistake of going “too far, too fast.” He couches their approach as “an ancient and honorable custom” and references Mein Kampf, the Communist Manifesto, and Leung’s the Porcelain Wall. Based on the histories of the men behind these works, Stanley knows that the CDT will follow the practice of appeasement and allow the Aga Kagans to make their little land-grabs until they are positioned so that they cannot be stopped."
"<s>   THE DESERT AND THE STARS     BY KEITH LAUMER     The Aga Kaga wanted peace—a     piece of everything in sight!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I'm not at all sure, Under-Secretary Sternwheeler said, that I fullyunderstand the necessity for your ... ah ... absenting yourself fromyour post of duty, Mr. Retief. Surely this matter could have been dealtwith in the usual way—assuming any action is necessary.     I had a sharp attack of writer's cramp, Mr. Secretary, Retief said.So I thought I'd better come along in person—just to be sure I waspositive of making my point.     Eh?     Why, ah, there were a number of dispatches, Deputy Under-SecretaryMagnan put in. Unfortunately, this being end-of-the-fiscal-year time,we found ourselves quite inundated with reports. Reports, reports,reports—     Not criticizing the reporting system, are you, Mr. Magnan? theUnder-Secretary barked.     Gracious, no, Magnan said. I love reports.     It seems nobody's told the Aga Kagans about fiscal years, Retiefsaid. They're going right ahead with their program of land-grabbing onFlamme. So far, I've persuaded the Boyars that this is a matter for theCorps, and not to take matters into their own hands.     The Under-Secretary nodded. Quite right. Carry on along the samelines. Now, if there's nothing further—     Thank you, Mr. Secretary, Magnan said, rising. We certainlyappreciate your guidance.     There is a little something further, said Retief, sitting solidly inhis chair. What's the Corps going to do about the Aga Kagans?     The Under-Secretary turned a liverish eye on Retief. As Ministerto Flamme, you should know that the function of a diplomaticrepresentative is merely to ... what shall I say...?     String them along? Magnan suggested.     An unfortunate choice of phrase, the Under-Secretary said. However,it embodies certain realities of Galactic politics. The Corps mustconcern itself with matters of broad policy.     Sixty years ago the Corps was encouraging the Boyars to settleFlamme, Retief said. They were assured of Corps support.     I don't believe you'll find that in writing, said the Under-Secretaryblandly. In any event, that was sixty years ago. At that time afoothold against Neo-Concordiatist elements was deemed desirable. Nowthe situation has changed.     The Boyars have spent sixty years terraforming Flamme, Retief said.They've cleared jungle, descummed the seas, irrigated deserts, set outforests. They've just about reached the point where they can begin toenjoy it. The Aga Kagans have picked this as a good time to move in.They've landed thirty detachments of 'fishermen'—complete with armoredtrawlers mounting 40 mm infinite repeaters—and another two dozenparties of 'homesteaders'—all male and toting rocket launchers.     Surely there's land enough on the world to afford space to bothgroups, the Under-Secretary said. A spirit of co-operation—  <doc-sep>The leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard,unlimbered his rifle. He fingered it, frowning ferociously.     Have no fear, Retief said, smiling graciously. He who comes as aguest enjoys perfect safety.     A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath and leveled hisrifle at Retief.     Youth is the steed of folly, Retief said. Take care that thebeardless one does not disgrace his house.     The leader whirled on the youth and snarled an order. He lowered therifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief.     Begone, interlopers, he said. You disturb the goats.     Provision is not taken to the houses of the generous, Retief said.May the creatures dine well ere they move on.     Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga Kaga.The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. We welcome nointruders on our lands.     To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him appearfoolish, Retief said. These are the lands of the Boyars. But enoughof these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler.     You may address me as 'Exalted One', the leader said. Now dismountfrom that steed of Shaitan.     It is written, if you need anything from a dog, call him 'sir',Retief said. I must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Nowyou may conduct us to your headquarters.     Enough of your insolence! The bearded man cocked his rifle. I couldblow your heads off!     The hen has feathers, but it does not fly, Retief said. We haveasked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man,a hint is enough.     You mock me, pale one. I warn you—     Only love makes me weep, Retief said. I laugh at hatred.     Get out of the car!     Retief puffed at his cigar, eyeing the Aga Kagan cheerfully. The youthin the rear moved forward, teeth bared.     Never give in to the fool, lest he say, 'He fears me,' Retief said.     I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults, the bearded AgaKagan roared. These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as well!     When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings, Retief said.Distress in misfortune is another misfortune.     The bearded man's face grew purple.     Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the car.     Now I think we'd better be getting on, he said briskly. I've enjoyedour chat, but we do have business to attend to.     The bearded leader laughed shortly. Does the condemned man beg for theaxe? he enquired rhetorically. You shall visit the Aga Kaga, then.Move on! And make no attempt to escape, else my gun will speak you abrief farewell.     The horsemen glowered, then, at a word from the leader, took positionsaround the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following theleading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh.     That was close, he said. I was about out of proverbs.     You sound as though you'd brought off a coup, Georges said. From theexpression on the whiskery one's face, we're in for trouble. What washe saying?     Just a routine exchange of bluffs, Retief said. Now when we getthere, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and yourinsults sound like flattery, and you'll be all right.     These birds are armed. And they don't like strangers, Georges said.Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined thisexpedition.     Just stick to the plan, Retief said. And remember: a handful of luckis better than a camel-load of learning.  <doc-sep>The Aga Kaga guffawed. For a diplomat, you speak plainly, Retief. Haveanother drink. He poured, eyeing Georges. What of M. Duror? How doeshe feel about it?     Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. Not bad, he said. Butnot quite good enough to cover the odor of goats.     The Aga Kaga snorted. I thought the goats were overdoing it a bitmyself, he said. Still, the graybeards insisted. And I need theirsupport.     Also, Georges said distinctly, I think you're soft. You lie aroundletting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an honestday's work.     The Aga Kaga looked startled. Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron baras big as your thumb. He popped a grape into his mouth. As for therest, your pious views about the virtues of hard labor are as childishas my advisors' faith in the advantages of primitive plumbing. As formyself, I am a realist. If two monkeys want the same banana, in the endone will have it, and the other will cry morality. The days of my yearsare numbered, praise be to God. While they last, I hope to eat well,hunt well, fight well and take my share of pleasure. I leave to othersthe arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions.     You admit you're here to grab our land, then, Georges said. That'sthe damnedest piece of bare-faced aggression—     Ah, ah! The Aga Kaga held up a hand. Watch your vocabulary, mydear sir. I'm sure that 'justifiable yearnings for territorialself-realization' would be more appropriate to the situation. Orpossibly 'legitimate aspirations, for self-determination of formerlyexploited peoples' might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition,an activity carried on only by those who have inherited the mantle ofColonial Imperialism.     Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most notoriousplanet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you—     Call me Stanley. The Aga Kaga munched a grape. I merely face therealities of popular folk-lore. Let's be pragmatic; it's a matter ofhistorical association. Some people can grab land and pass it offlightly as a moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely forholding onto their own. Unfair, you say. But that's life, my friends.And I shall continue to take every advantage of it.     We'll fight you! Georges bellowed. He took another gulp of whiskeyand slammed the glass down. You won't take this world without astruggle!     Another? the Aga Kaga said, offering the bottle. Georges glowered ashis glass was filled. The Aga Kaga held the glass up to the light.     Excellent color, don't you agree? He turned his eyes on Georges.     It's pointless to resist, he said. We have you outgunned andoutmanned. Your small nation has no chance against us. But we'reprepared to be generous. You may continue to occupy such areas as we donot immediately require until such time as you're able to make otherarrangements.     And by the time we've got a crop growing out of what was bare rock,you'll be ready to move in, the Boyar Chef d'Regime snapped. Butyou'll find that we aren't alone!  <doc-sep></s>","The Aga Kagans are an empire-building society that has been increasing their presence in six other worlds by the time they appear on Flamme. The Aga Kagans send in men disguised as goat herders and fishermen who are actually armed and equipped with modern accessories. The Aga Kagans have a plan to build their empire by invading other worlds following the model of Adolf Hitler, but they plan to avoid his mistake of moving “too far, too fast.” The Aga Kagan leader, Stanley, is well-educated and a manipulator. He plays to the older conservative Aga Kagans by allowing the third-world trappings of goat herders to be used while he actually has disdain for their traditional values, but his charade gives him what he wants. The Aga Kagans wait until an area has done the hard work of building its civilization and becoming sustainable before he moves his men in. Although the CDT is aware of the Aga Kagans’ actions, it wants to avoid warfare and meets the intrusions with diplomacy, but all the while, the Aga Kagans are ensconcing themselves for a permanent takeover of the places where they have intruded."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>   INNOCENT AT LARGE     By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course       he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared       to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble!        The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips.     After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important.     She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you.     Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage?       Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight.     I'll say you do! With a Martian!  <doc-sep>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.     What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark.     The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him.     They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off.     A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness.     I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil.     I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection.     So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.  <doc-sep></s>","Peter Matheny is a Martian sociodynamics professor sent to Earth on behalf of the Martian government under the guise of hiring an Earthman who can help manage and improve their export business. Armed with a hundred million dollars, his real mission is to find and enlist the service of a con man who can help the Martians concoct a securities scheme that will net greater profits than their current exports yield (the government hired him because of his experience formulating the Red Ankh Society scheme, which offered to sell bogus wisdom of the Old Martians). Peter is accustomed to the largely-empty deserts of Mars and enjoys the serenity of smoking a pipe while stargazing behind his small home in addition to other quiet hobbies such as reading, playing chess, and collecting minerals. When he arrives on Earth, he feels out of his element and uncomfortable due to the heavy, humid air and massive towers and neon lights he encounters in the crowded city, so he seeks a place where he can sit. He finds a place called The Church of Choice, where, to his delight, he discovers a number of gambling games in progress despite the ban on such activities on Earth. Because the Martian Constitution specifically allows for gambling, Peter partakes and shoots a successful game of craps. However, he expresses confusion about Earth rules for craps, since the Martian version employs a number of tricks and cheats. After the game, Peter feels uncomfortable again and tries to leave, but he is stopped by a man named Gus Doran, who takes him out for drinks. During their conversation, Peter tells Gus about the struggles of the Martian economy and explains how high Earth taxes and greedy middlemen have cut into the profits from their exports. Over the course of a few more drinks, Peter tells Gus about several frauds the Martians developed in an effort to bolster their economy and accidentally reveals his true intentions for visiting Earth to Gus. This information intrigues Gus who informs Peter that he has contacts that may be able to help. To ensure Peter's trust, Gus uses an oath box and promises not to tell anyone what he learned from Peter that night. Gus then suggests they celebrate by inviting some women to their hotel, and he leaves to make a phone call. He calls his business partner Peri, who is preparing to go on a date with a wealthy marijuana rancher. Gus convinces her to cancel the date and join him at the hotel so that together they can take advantage of Peter's amenability and hustle him out of a million dollars."
"<s>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.     What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark.     The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him.     They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off.     A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness.     I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil.     I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection.     So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.  <doc-sep>When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts.     Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.     Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff.     What in hell do you want? Extrone asked.     They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began.     Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice.     Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir.     Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?     We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir.     So? Extrone mocked.     We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it.     Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here.     The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir....     Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you?     Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.     You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said.     We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir.  <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  <doc-sep></s>","There are several locations where key events in the story take place including Peri's residence, the immigration office, the Earth city, the Church of Choice, Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar & Grill, and the Jupiter-Astoria hotel. In addition, at various points throughout the narrative, Peter recalls life on Mars, which is covered with deserts and scrub thorn and an atmosphere with drier air and lesser gravity compared to Earth's humidity and strong gravitation. Martian society is largely rural with very small towns and villages, and their weeks are different than those on Earth; they have a day called Tenthday when Peter likes to play poker with his coworkers, and he sometimes visits a place called Swindletown. Peter often notes the differences between Earth's commercialism and reliance upon automation and Mars' more calm, individualistic society. Peter is overwhelmed by the bright, neon lights, massive towers, and sheer amount of vehicles and people in the city where he arrives on Earth and longs for his small cottage and rock garden back on Mars. To navigate the city, Peter takes cabs, and to access the different levels of the towers, he utilizes the ramp system. Looking for a place to sit, Peter finds The Church of Choice, which seems to be an establishment where people can drink and gamble, although gambling is illegal on Earth. The Church of Choice features craps tables, roulette wheels, and even Bingo and has a large, marble lobby at its entrance that leads into a number of dim rooms with Gothic architecture. After meeting Gus there, the two leave and share drinks at Paul Bunyan Knotty Pine Bar & Grill, a place where diners can talk in private sitting at soundproof booths while enjoying a strip show. The carpeted hotel room he shares with Gus at the Jupiter-Astoria has a pneumatic device that can deliver drinks straight from the bar along with anything else someone may require, such as the oath box Gus uses to cement Peter's trust in him. There is also a bathroom and a sexy type of furniture that operates like a massage chair."
"<s>   INNOCENT AT LARGE     By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course       he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared       to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble!        The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips.     After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important.     She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you.     Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage?       Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight.     I'll say you do! With a Martian!  <doc-sep>The lady drew herself up and jutted an indignant brow at him. Sir!This is a church!     Oh—I see—excuse me, I, I, I— Matheny backed out of the crowd,shuddering. He looked around for some place to hide his burning ears.     You forgot your chips, pal, said a voice.     Oh. Thanks. Thanks ever so much. I, I, that is— Matheny cursedhis knotting tongue.      Damn it, just because they're so much moresophisticated than I, do I have to talk like a leaky boiler?       The helpful Earthman was not tall. He was dark and chisel-faced andsleekly pomaded, dapper in blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbellcloak and curly-toed slippers.     You're from Mars, aren't you? he asked in the friendliest toneMatheny had yet heard.     Yes. Yes, I am. M-my name's Peter Matheny. I, I— He stuck out hishand to shake and chips rolled over the floor. Damn! Oh, excuse me, Iforgot this was a church. Never mind the chips. No, please. I just wantto g-g-get the hell out of here.     Good idea. How about a drink? I know a bar downshaft.     Matheny sighed. A drink is what I need the very most.     My name's Doran. Gus Doran. Call me Gus.     They walked back to the deaconette's booth and Matheny cashed whatremained of his winnings.     I don't want to—I mean if you're busy tonight, Mr. Doran—     Nah. I am not doing one thing in particular. Besides, I have never meta Martian. I am very interested.     There aren't many of us on Earth, agreed Matheny. Just a smallembassy staff and an occasional like me.     I should think you would do a lot of traveling here. The old motherplanet and so on.     We can't afford it, said Matheny. What with gravitation anddistance, such voyages are much too expensive for us to make them forpleasure. Not to mention our dollar shortage. As they entered theshaft, he added wistfully: You Earth people have that kind of money,at least in your more prosperous brackets. Why don't you send a fewtourists to us?     I always wanted to, said Doran. I would like to see the what theycall City of Time, and so on. As a matter of fact, I have given mygirl one of those Old Martian rings last Ike's Birthday and she wasjust gazoo about it. A jewel dug out of the City of Time, like,made a million years ago by a, uh, extinct race ... I tell you, she      appreciated     me for it! He winked and nudged.     Oh, said Matheny.  <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first!     Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see?     So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap—     Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid.     Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby.     Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked.     Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three—     Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus?  <doc-sep></s>","Gus is a con artist who works with Peri and Sam Wendt to primarily target wealthy, powerful men and extort money from them. He is short, chisel-faced, has slicked-back hair, and wears blue pajamas with a red zigzag, a sleighbell cloak, and slippers. When the story begins, Peri is preparing to go on a date with the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc. who is also a wealthy marijuana rancher, supposedly to use him for money. Gus convinces her to change her plans to help him swindle Peter since he has discovered Peter has a hundred million dollars at his disposal and appears to be susceptible to Gus's charming and manipulative ways. Gus goads Peter into confessing his secret by providing him with beer and akvavit and gains his trust by wearing the helmet attached to the oath box. At the end of the story, Gus agrees to help Peter find his confidence man by utilizing his network of underworld contacts, but instead calls Peri to begin implementing his con."
"<s>Doran blew up in laughter. That is one thing I would never spill, evenwithout security. I told you about my girl friend, didn't I?     Yes, and that calls to mind the Little Girl, said Mathenyapologetically. She was another official project.     Who?     Remember Junie O'Brien? The little golden-haired girl on Mars, amathematical prodigy, but dying of an incurable disease? She collectedEarth coins.     Oh, that. Sure, I remember—Hey! You didn't!     Yes. We made about a billion dollars on that one.     I will be double damned. You know, Pete, I sent her a hundred-buckpiece myself. Say, how is Junie O'Brien?     Oh, fine. Under a different name, she's now our finance minister.Matheny stared out the wall, his hands twisting nervously behind hisback. There were no lies involved. She really does have a fataldisease. So do you and I. Every day we grow older.     Uh! exclaimed Doran.     And then the Red Ankh Society. You must have seen or heard their ads.'What mysterious knowledge did the Old Martians possess? What wasthe secret wisdom of the Ancient Aliens? Now the incredibly powerfulsemantics of the Red Ankh (not a religious organization) is availableto a select few—' That's our largest dollar-earning enterprise.     He would have liked to say it was his suggestion originally, but itwould have been too presumptuous. He was talking to an Earthman, whohad heard everything already.     Doran whistled.     That's about all, so far, confessed Matheny. Perhaps a con is ouronly hope. I've been wondering, maybe we could organize a Martianbucket shop, handling Martian securities, but—well, I don't know.     I think— Doran removed the helmet and stood up.     Yes? Matheny faced around, shivering with his own tension.     I may be able to find the man you want, said Doran. I just may. Itwill take a few days and might get a little expensive.     You mean.... Mr. Doran—Gus—you could actually—     I cannot promise anything yet except that I will try. Now you finishdressing. I will be down in the bar. And I will call up this girl Iknow. We deserve a celebration!  <doc-sep>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top.     The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation.     The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program.     It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice.     But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance.     Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet?     Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought—     Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me!     Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly.  <doc-sep>A dropshaft deposited him on a walkway. The crowd, a rainbow of men inpajamas and robes, women in Neo-Sino dresses and goldleaf hats, swepthim against the rail. For a moment, squashed to the wire, he stared ahundred feet down at the river of automobiles.      Phobos!     he thoughtwildly.      If the barrier gives, I'll be sliced in two by a dorsal finbefore I hit the pavement!       The August twilight wrapped him in heat and stickiness. He could seeneither stars nor even moon through the city's blaze. The forest ofmulti-colored towers, cataracting half a mile skyward across moreacreage than his eyes reached, was impressive and all that, but—heused to stroll out in the rock garden behind his cottage and smoke apipe in company with Orion. On summer evenings, that is, when thetemperature wasn't too far below zero.       Why did they tap me for this job?     he asked himself in a surge ofhomesickness.      What the hell is the Martian Embassy here for?       He, Peter Matheny, was no more than a peaceful professor ofsociodynamics at Devil's Kettle University. Of course, he had advisedhis government before now—in fact, the Red Ankh Society had been hisidea—but still he was at ease only with his books and his chess andhis mineral collection, a faculty poker party on Tenthday night and anoccasional trip to Swindletown—       My God     , thought Matheny,      here I am, one solitary outlander in thegreatest commercial empire the human race has ever seen, and I'msupposed to find my planet a con man!       He began walking, disconsolately, at random. His lizardskin shirt andblack culottes drew glances, but derisive ones: their cut was fortyyears out of date. He should find himself a hotel, he thought drearily,but he wasn't tired; the spaceport would pneumo his baggage to himwhenever he did check in. The few Martians who had been to Earth hadgone into ecstasies over the automation which put any service you couldname on a twenty-four-hour basis. But it would be a long time beforeMars had such machines. If ever.     The city roared at him.     He fumbled after his pipe.      Of course     , he told himself,      that's whythe Embassy can't act. I may find it advisable to go outside the law.Please, sir, where can I contact the underworld?       He wished gambling were legal on Earth. The Constitution of the MartianRepublic forbade sumptuary and moral legislation; quite apart from therambunctious individualism which that document formulated, the articlewas a practical necessity. Life was bleak enough on the deserts,without being denied the pleasure of trying to bottom-deal some friendwho was happily trying to mark the cards. Matheny would have found afew spins of roulette soothing: it was always an intellectual challengeto work out the system by which the management operated a wheel. Butmore, he would have been among people he understood.     The frightful thing about the Earthman was the way he seemed toexist only in organized masses. A gypsy snake oil peddler, ploddinghis syrtosaur wagon across Martian sands, just didn't have a prayeragainst, say, the Grant, Harding & Adams Public Relations Agency.  <doc-sep></s>","The Red Ankh Society is a con devised by Peter for the Martian government as a way to boost their economy. People paid for the exclusive privilege of access to the secrets and ancient wisdom of the Old Martians; in reality, these were just bogus semantics compiled for the sake of earning large amounts of money. However, the existence of the Red Ankh Society reveals quite a bit about Mars, the role of cons in the story, and even Peter himself. During Peter's discussion with Gus, we learn the Martians are descended from Earthmen who preferred greater freedom than was offered by the United Protectorate and moved to Mars to establish a life there. They work to make the planet habitable and attractive to tourists, but the process is slow because they cannot afford the equipment and power plants required to build on a scale that will attract the necessary amount of visitors needed to turn a profit. This leads the government to resort to drastic measures; they wield their skills at playing tricks and cheating at gambling (they even have a city called Swindletown) to implement a number of schemes meant to draw in vast amounts of cash such as the Red Ankh Society, the construction and sale of phony ancient relics and ruins, and the saga of Junie O'Brien (a little girl whose fake illness raised a billion dollars for the planet). This leads the government to send Peter to Earth in order to purchase the services of a con man who can help implement a new scheme to sell Martian securities. This trip introduces Peter to Gus, who begins work on a plan to swindle Peter out of a million dollars."
"<s>   INNOCENT AT LARGE     By POUL AND KAREN ANDERSON     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction July 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        A hayseed Martian among big-planet slickers ... of course       he would get into trouble. But that was nothing compared       to the trouble he would be in if he did not get into trouble!        The visiphone chimed when Peri had just gotten into her dinner gown.She peeled it off again and slipped on a casual bathrobe: a wisp oftranslucence which had set the president of Antarctic Enterprise—orhad it been the chairman of the board?—back several thousand dollars.Then she pulled a lock of lion-colored hair down over one eye, checkedwith a mirror, rumpled it a tiny bit more and wrapped the robe looselyon top and tight around the hips.     After all, some of the men who knew her private number were important.     She undulated to the phone and pressed its Accept. Hello-o, there,she said automatically. So sorry to keep you waiting. I was justtaking a bath and—Oh. It's you.     Gus Doran's prawnlike eyes popped at her. Holy Success, he whisperedin awe. You sure the wires can carry that much voltage?       Well, hurry up with whatever it is, snapped Peri. I got a datetonight.     I'll say you do! With a Martian!  <doc-sep>Peri narrowed her silver-blue gaze and looked icily at him. You musthave heard wrong, Gus. He's the heir apparent of Indonesia, Inc.,that's who, and if you called up to ask for a piece of him, you canjust blank right out again. I saw him first!     Doran's thin sharp face grinned. You break that date, Peri. Put it offor something. I got this Martian for you, see?     So? Since when has all Mars had as much spending money as one big-timemarijuana rancher? Not to mention the heir ap—     Sure, sure. But how much are those boys going to spend on any girl,even a high-level type like you? Listen, I need you just for tonight,see? This Martian is strictly from gone. He is here on officialbusiness, but he is a yokel and I do mean hayseed. Like he asked mewhat the Christmas decorations in all the stores were! And here is thesolar nexus of it, Peri, kid.     Doran leaned forward as if to climb out of the screen. He has got ahundred million dollars expense money, and they are not going to audithis accounts at home. One hundred million good green certificates,legal tender anywhere in the United Protectorates. And he has aboutas much backbone as a piece of steak alga. Kid, if I did not happen tohave experience otherwise with a small nephew, I would say this will belike taking candy from a baby.     Peri's peaches-and-cream countenance began to resemble peaches andcream left overnight on Pluto. Badger? she asked.     Sure. You and Sam Wendt handle the routine. I will take the go-betweenangle, so he will think of me as still his friend, because I have otherplans for him too. But if we can't shake a million out of him for thisone night's work, there is something akilter. And your share of amillion is three hundred thirty-three—     Is five hundred thousand flat, said Peri. Too bad I just got anawful headache and can't see Mr. Sastro tonight. Where you at, Gus?  <doc-sep>   THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  <doc-sep></s>","Peri is Gus Doran's business associate along with someone named Sam Wendt. The three of them operate an enterprise centering on Peri's ability to attract rich and powerful men and swindle them for cash. Peri has golden blonde hair and silver-blue eyes and a light complexion, and she has a private phone number she gives to men involved in the group's schemes. At the beginning of the story, she wears a dinner gown as she prepares to go on a date with a marijuana rancher, who is also the heir apparent to Indonesia, Inc. When she receives a phone call, she changes from her gown into a more casual bathrobe, thinking one of her many suitors is calling her and wants to make him feel special. However, the casualness of the bathrobe is misleading as it is worth thousands of dollars and was given to her by a representative of the Antarctic Enterprise. She even tousles up her coiffed hair to complete the image. When she realizes it is only Gus Doran calling, she grows impatient and drops her facade. On the call with Gus, she learns of his introduction to Peter Matheny, and together they agree on a scheme to extort a million dollars from him. Gus wants to split the cash evenly between the three of them, but Peri insists on fifty percent for her share. She cancels the date with the marijuana rancher and prepares to go meet Gus and Peter at the Jupiter-Astoria."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  THE SOUL EATERS     By WILLIAM CONOVER     Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance     to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose     ships were the scourge of the Void. But his     luck had run its course, and now he was     marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save     himself from a menace weapons could not kill.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]            And so, my dear     , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase,       I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by.          Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's.     The barbaric rhythms of the      Congahua     , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.     Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate.     A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.     It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla.     Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious      Verbena     , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian      Bacca-glas     , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote.     His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly.     Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there.  <doc-sep>  The CONJURER of VENUS     By CONAN T. TROY       A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus.       When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that       globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories November 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet?     On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear.     Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell.     Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him.     I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight?     Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers.     Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence?     In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar.     Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later.     But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself.     Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it?     They      are     beautiful, he said, smiling.     Thank you.     I was referring to the bubbles.     You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed.     How did you know? I mean....     I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling.     Are you sufficiently knowing to be here?     For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here?     Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered.     I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee.     Vee Vee? Um. That is....     Don't you think it's a nice name?     I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer.     There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew.  <doc-sep></s>","Jonny Johnson is one of Earth’s foremost scientists, but no one on Venus is supposed to know that. He and another man, Caldwell, have come looking for another human named Martin, and it would be quite dangerous for him and them if anyone knew they were there. Johnson enters a bar known for providing patrons with dreams, and meets a gorgeous and dangerous woman named Vee Vee. Vee Vee attempts to use a tactic known as the Karmer nerve paralysis on Johnson, which he swiftly blocks. They enter the Room of the Dreamer together, even though they don’t trust each other (and Caldwell has tipped off Johnson to watch out for her because she has been asking about Martin). As they enter the room and Johnson and Vee Vee lob threats back and forth, she reveals that she knows who he is but says she will keep his secret. The Dreamer, Unger, enters the room and the dreaming commences. It seems to affect everyone, including Johnson, who sees a spaceship and then is upset that he can’t get it back. He has the odd sensation of different bodily organs speaking to him and trying to convince him what he’s seeing is real as he watches Unger levitate high into the air. Unger falls, hard, and the crowd gets very upset and murmurs suggest a human is at fault. Vee Vee suddenly kisses Johnson, saying she might not be able to later. He is puzzled by this, until he sees that Martin is in the room and the crowd is converging on him. Johnson and Caldwell fire their effective but not fatal zit guns into the crowd as Johnson calls out Vee Vee’s name and Caldwell tells him to forget about her. As the passage ends they are trying to get through the frantic throng of people to reach Martin. "
"<s>  The CONJURER of VENUS     By CONAN T. TROY       A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus.       When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that       globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories November 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet?     On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear.     Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell.     Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him.     I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight?     Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers.     Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence?     In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar.     Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later.     But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself.     Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it?     They      are     beautiful, he said, smiling.     Thank you.     I was referring to the bubbles.     You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed.     How did you know? I mean....     I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling.     Are you sufficiently knowing to be here?     For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here?     Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered.     I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee.     Vee Vee? Um. That is....     Don't you think it's a nice name?     I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer.     There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew.  <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place?     Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid.     Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him.     There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back.     In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer.     You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid.     Not any longer, he laughed.     You have decided them?     Yes.     Every last one of them?     Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell.     Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood.     I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here.     Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How—     Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar.     Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell.     My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him—     Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold.     The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes?     The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow.     Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And      he     might be there.     Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight.     Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer.     In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen.     The trumpets flared again.     On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven.     Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder.     She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it.     You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis.     And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me.     But—     Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow.     If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it.     I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice.     Good, Johnson said.     The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said.     What a sweet, charming child you—     I told you before, I'm not a child.     Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt.     She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm.     There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip.     What way?     Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered.     Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus.     Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along.     Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming.      II     It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps.     The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms.     The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now.     Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm.     Do you feel it, darling?     Yes.     What is it?     How would I know?     Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know.     Johnny! How do you know my name?     Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it.     But—     And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly?     Hell—     John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him.     And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on.     Who are you? His words were blasts of sound.     Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do.     He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her.     Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme.     A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak.     The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you?     That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here?     Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft.     Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds.     True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him.     The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose.  <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged.     That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now.     Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.     It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship.           H-mph!      the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality.     Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge.     Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price.     Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone.     Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly.     Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host.     Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room.     He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company.     Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.     Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents?     Quite, said Harvey. We shall order.     For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian      viotars     , using his other twohands for waiting on the table.     We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire.     Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right.     But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents.     The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.     It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents.     As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror.     What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure—      three hundred and twenty-eight buckos     !  <doc-sep></s>","Johnson, whose full name is John Michael Johnson, is described by Vee Vee as one of Earth’s foremost scientists, and an expert in the field of electro-magnetic radiation in human bodies. He is the protagonist of the story, a human man who has apparently come to Venus in search of another human named Martin. He goes to a bar that has a Room of the Dreamer. Before he enters it, he encounters Vee Vee. She incites both lust and anxiety in Johnson, as he is attracted to her but doesn’t think she should be alone at a Venusian bar. After she attempts to use Karmer’s nerve paralysis on him, he blocks her and threatens her not to do it again. They go into the Room of the Dreamer, where Johnson discovers that Vee Vee knows who he is. The Unger enters and the dreaming begins. Johnson sees a spaceship before him and the room seems to disappear behind him. Johnson is upset when the spaceship disappears and he can’t get it back. He sees Unger starting to levitate and all of Johnson’s various body parts seem to talk to him. When Unger falls, Vee Vee kisses Johnson. He is confused and then realizes that Martin is there and is being attacked. As the passage ends, Johnson and Caldwell are shooting people with their zit guns and trying to get toward Martin as Johnson calls out to Vee Vee. "
"<s>  The CONJURER of VENUS     By CONAN T. TROY       A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus.       When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that       globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories November 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet?     On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear.     Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell.     Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him.     I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight?     Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers.     Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence?     In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar.     Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later.     But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself.     Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it?     They      are     beautiful, he said, smiling.     Thank you.     I was referring to the bubbles.     You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed.     How did you know? I mean....     I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling.     Are you sufficiently knowing to be here?     For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here?     Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered.     I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee.     Vee Vee? Um. That is....     Don't you think it's a nice name?     I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer.     There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew.  <doc-sep>What the devil are you doing here on Venus and here in this place?     Growing. The blue eyes were unafraid.     Sombrely, Johnson regarded her. What was she doing here? Was she inthe employ of the Venusians? If she was being planted on him, thenhis purpose here was suspected. He shrugged the thought aside. If hispurpose here was suspected, there would be no point in planting a womanon him.     There would only be the minor matter of slipping a knife into his back.     In this city, as on all of Venus, humans died easily. No one questionedthe motives of the killer.     You look as if you were considering some very grave matter, Vee Veesaid.     Not any longer, he laughed.     You have decided them?     Yes.     Every last one of them?     Oh, there might be one or two matters undecided somewhere, say out onthe periphery of the galaxy. But we will solve them when we get tothem. He waved vaguely toward the roof and the sky of space hiddenbehind the clouds that lay over the roof, glanced around as a man easedhimself into an empty stool on his left. The man was Caldwell.     Zlock! Caldwell said, to the bartender. Make it snappy. Gotta havezlock. Finest damn drink in the solar system. Caldwell's voice wasthick, his tongue heavy. Johnson's eyes went back to the girl but outof the corner of them he watched Caldwell's hand lying on the bar. Thefingers were beating a quick nervous tattoo on the yellow wood.     I haven't seen him, Caldwell's fingers beat out their tattoo. But Ithink he is, or was, here.     Um, Johnson said, his eyes on Vee Vee. How—     Because that girl was asking for him, Caldwell's fingers answered.Watch that girl! Picking up the zlock, he lurched away from the bar.     Your friend is not as drunk as he seems, Vee Vee said, watchingCaldwell.     My friend? Do you mean that drunk? I never saw him—     Lying is one of the deadly sins. Her eyes twinkled at him. Under themerriment that danced in them there was ice. Johnson felt cold.     The reservations for ze dreaming, great one? The headwaiter wasbowing and scraping in front of him. The great one has decided, yes?     The dreaming! Vee Vee looked suddenly alert. Of course. We must seethe dreaming. Everyone wants to see the dreaming. We will go, won't wedarling? She hooked her hand into Johnson's elbow.     Certainly, Johnson said. The decision was made on the spur of themoment. That there was danger in it, he did not doubt. But there mightbe something else. And      he     might be there.     Oh. But very good. Ze great Unger, you will love him! The headwaiterclutched the gold coins that Johnson extended, bowed himself out ofsight.     Say, I want to know more— Johnson began. His words were drowned ina blast of trumpets. The band that had been playing went into suddensilence. Waves of perfume began to flow into the place. The perfumeswere blended, but one aroma was prominent among them, the sweet,cloying, soul-stirring perfume of the Dreamer.     In the suddenly hushed place little sounds began to appear as Venusiansand humans began to shift their feet and their bodies in anticipationof what was to happen.     The trumpets flared again.     On one side of the place, a big door began to swing slowly open. Frombeyond that slowly opening door came music, soft, muted strains thatsounded like lutes from heaven.     Vee Vee, her hand on Johnson's elbow, rose. Johnson stood up withher. He got the surprise of his life as her fingers clenched, digginginto his muscles. Pain shot through his arm, paralyzing it and almostparalyzing him. He knew instantly that she was using the Karmer nerveblock paralysis on him. His left hand moved with lightning speed, thetips of his fingers striking savagely against her shoulder.     She gasped, her face whitened as pain shot through her in response tothe thrust of his finger tips. Her hand that had been digging into hiselbow lost its grip, dropped away and hung limp at her side. Grabbingit, she began to massage it.     You—you— Hot anger and shock were in her voice. You're the firstman I ever knew who could break the Karmer nerve paralysis.     And you're the first woman who ever tried it on me.     But—     Shall we go watch the dreaming? He took the arm that still hung limpat her side and tucked it into his elbow.     If you try to use the Karmer grip on me again I'll break your arm, hesaid. His voice was low but there was a wealth of meaning in it.     I won't do it again, the girl said stoutly. I never make the samemistake twice.     Good, Johnson said.     The second time we break our victim's neck, Vee Vee said.     What a sweet, charming child you—     I told you before, I'm not a child.     Child vampire, Johnson said. Let me finish my sentences before youinterrupt.     She was silent. A smile, struggling to appear on her face, seemed tosay she held no malice. Her fingers tightened on Johnson's arm. Hetensed, expecting the nerve block grip again. Instead with the tips ofher fingers she gently patted his arm.     There, there, darling, relax, she said. I know a better way to getyou than by using the Karmer grip.     What way?     Her eyes sparkled. Eve's way, she answered.     Um! Surprise sounded in his grunt. But apples don't grow on Venus.     Eve's daughters don't use apples any more, darling. Come along.     Moving toward the open door that led to the Room of the Dreaming,Johnson saw that Caldwell had risen and was following them. Caldwell'sface was writhing in apprehensive agony and he was making warningsigns. Johnson ignored them. With Vee Vee's fingers lightly patting hisarm, they moved into the Room of the Dreaming.      II     It was a huge, semi-illumined room, with tier on tier of circling rampsrising up from an open space at the bottom. There ought to have beena stage there at the bottom, but there wasn't. Instead there was anopen space, a mat, and a head rest. Up at the top of the circling rampsthe room was in darkness, a fit hiding place for ghosts or Venusianwerewolves. Pillows and a thick rug covered the circling ramps.     The soul-quickening Perfume of the Dreamer was stronger here. Thethrobbing of the lutes was louder. It was Venusian music the lutes wereplaying. Human ears found it inharmonious at first, but as they becameaccustomed to it, they began to detect rhythms and melodies that humanminds had not known existed. The room was pleasantly cool but it hadthe feel of dampness. A world that was rarely without pelting rainwould have the feel of dampness in its dreaming rooms.     The music playing strange harmonies in his ears, the perfume sendingtingling feelings through his nose, Johnson entered the Room of theDreamer. He suspected that other forces, unknown to him, were catchinghold of his senses. He had been in dreaming rooms many times before buthe had not grown accustomed to them. He wondered if any human everdid. A touch of chill always came over him as he crossed the threshold.In entering these places, it was as if some unknown nerve centerinside the human organism was touched by something, some force, someradiation, some subtlety, that quite escaped radiation. He felt thecoldness now.     Vee Vee's fingers left off patting his arm.     Do you feel it, darling?     Yes.     What is it?     How would I know?     Please! Her voice grew sharp. I think Johnny Johnson ought to know.     Johnny! How do you know my name?     Shouldn't I recognize one of Earth's foremost scientists, even if heis incognito on Venus? Her voice had a teasing quality in it.     But—     And who besides Johnny Johnson would recognize the Karmer nerve gripand be able to break it instantly?     Hell—     John Michael Johnson, known as Johnny to his friends, Earth's foremostexpert in the field of electro-magnetic radiations within the humanbody! Her words were needles of icy fact, each one jabbing deeper anddeeper into him.     And how would I make certain you were Johnny Johnson, except by seeingif you could break the Karmer nerve grip? If you could break it, thenthere was no doubt who you were! Her words went on and on.     Who are you? His words were blasts of sound.     Please, darling, you are making a scene. I am sure this is the lastthing you really want to do.     He looked quickly around them. The Venusians and humans moving intothis room seemed to be paying no attention to him. His gaze came backto her.     Again she patted his arm. Relax, darling. Your secrets are safe withme.     A gray color came up inside his soul. But—but— His voice wassuddenly weak.     The fingers on his arm were very gentle. No harm will come to you. AmI not with you?     That's what I'm afraid of! he snapped at her. If he had had achoice, he might have drawn back. But with circumstances as theywere—his life, Caldwell's life, possibly Vee Vee's life hung in thebalance. Didn't she know that this was true? And as for Martin—ButCaldwell had said that she had been asking about Martin. Whatconnection did she have with that frantic human genius he sought here?     Johnson felt his skin crawl. He moved toward a nest of cushions ona ramp, found a Venusian was beating him to them, deftly changed toanother nest, found it. Vee Vee flowed to the floor on his right, movedcushions to make him more comfortable. She moved in an easy sort of waythat was all flowing movement. He sat down. Someone bumped him on theleft.     Sorry, bud. Didn't mean to bump into you. Caldwell's voice was stillthick and heavy. He sprawled to the floor on Johnson's left. Underthe man's coat, Johnson caught a glimpse of a slight bulge, the zitgun hidden there. His left arm pressed against his own coat, feelinghis own zit gun. Operating under gas pressure, throwing a charge ofgas-driven corvel, the zit guns were not only almost noiseless inoperation but they knocked out a human or a Venusian in a matter ofseconds.     True, the person they knocked unconscious would be all right the nextday. For this reason, many people did not regard the zit guns aseffective weapons, but Johnson had a fondness for them. The feel of thelittle weapon inside his coat sent a surge of comfort through him.     The music picked up a beat, perfume seemed to flow even more freelythrough the air, the lights dimmed almost to darkness, a single brightspotlight appeared in the ceiling, casting a circle of brilliantillumination on the mat and the headrest at the bottom of the room. Thecurtain rose.  <doc-sep>Unger stood in the middle of the spot of light.     Johnson felt his chest muscles contract, then relax. Vee Vee's fingerssought his arm, not to harm him but running to him for protection. Hecaught the flutter of her breathing. On his left, Caldwell stiffenedand became a rock.     Johnson had not seen Unger appear. One second the circle of lighthad been empty, the next second the Venusian, smiling with all theimpassivity of a bland Buddha, was in the light. He weighed threehundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, he was clad in a long robethat would impede movement. He had appeared in the bright beam of thespotlight as if by magic.     Vee Vee's fingers dug deeper into Johnson's arm. How—     Shhh. Nobody knows.     No human knew the answer to that trick. Unless perhaps Martin—     Unger bowed. A little ripple of something that was not quite soundpassed through the audience. Unger bowed again. He stretched himselfflat on the mat, adjusted the rest to support his head, and apparentlywent to sleep. Johnson saw the Dreamer's eyes close, watched the chesttake on the even, regular rhythm of sleep.     The music changed, a slow dreamy tempo crept into it. Vee Vee's fingersdug at Johnson's arm as if they were trying to dig under his hide forprotection. She was shivering. He reached for her hand, patted it. Shedrew closer to him.     A few minutes earlier, she had been a very certain young woman, ableto take care of herself, and handle anyone around her. Now she wassuddenly uncertain, suddenly scared. In the Room of the Dreaming, shehad suddenly become a frightened child looking for protection.     Haven't you ever seen this before? he whispered.     N—o. She shivered again. Oh, Johnny....     Under the circle of light pouring down from the ceiling, the Dreamerlay motionless. Johnson found himself with the tendency to hold hisbreath. He was waiting, waiting, waiting—for what? The whole situationwas senseless, silly, but under its apparent lack of coherence, hesensed a pattern. Perhaps the path to the far-off stars passed thisway, through such scented and musical and impossible places as theseRooms of the Dreamers. Certainly Martin thought so. And Johnson himselfwas not prepared to disagree.     Around him, he saw that the Venusians were already going ... going ...going.... Some of them were already gone. This was an old experienceto them. They went rapidly. Humans went more slowly.     The Venusian watchers had relaxed. They looked as if they were asleep,perhaps in a hypnotic trance, lulled into this state by the musicand the perfume, and by something else. It was this something elsethat sent Johnson's thoughts pounding. The Venusians were like opiumsmokers. But he was not smoking opium. He was not in a hypnotic trance.He was wide awake and very much alert. He was ...       watching a space ship float in an endless void     .     As Unger had come into the spotlight, so the space ship had come intohis vision, out of nowhere, out of nothingness. The room, the Dreamer,the sound of the music, the sweetness of the perfume, Vee Vee andCaldwell were gone. They were no longer in his reality. They were notin the range of his vision. It was as if they did not exist. Yet heknew they did exist, the memory of them, and of other things, was outon the periphery of his universe, perhaps of      the     universe.     All he saw was the space ship.     It was a wonderful thing, perhaps the most beautiful sight he had seenin his life. At the sight of it, a deep glow sprang inside of him.     Back when he had been a kid he had dreamed of flight to the far-offstars. He had made models of space ships. In a way, they had shaped hisdestiny, had made him what he was. They had brought him where he wasthis night, to the Dream Room of a Venusian tavern.     The vision of the space ship floating in the void entranced andthrilled him. Something told him that this was real; that here and nowhe was making contact with a vision that belonged to time.     He started to his feet. Fingers gripped his arm.     Please, darling. You startled me. Don't move. Vee Vee's voice. Whowas Vee Vee?     The fingers dug into his arm. Pain came up in him. The space shipvanished. He looked with startled eyes at Vee Vee, at the Dream Room,at Unger, dreaming on the mat under the spot.     You ... you startled me, Vee Vee whispered. She released the grip onhis arm.     But, didn't you see it?     See what?     The space ship!     No. No. She seemed startled and a little terrified and half asleep.I ... I was watching something else. When you moved I broke contactwith my dream.     Your dream?     He asked a question but she did not answer it. Sit down, darling,and look at your damned space ship. Her voice was a taut whisper ofsound in the darkened room. Johnson settled down. A glance to his lefttold him that Caldwell was still sitting like a chunk of stone.... TheVenusians were quiet. The music had shifted. A slow languorous beatof hidden drums filled the room. There was another sound present, ahigh-speed whirring. It was, somehow, a familiar sound, but Johnson hadnot heard it before in this place.     He thought about the space ship he had seen.     The vision would not come.     He shook his head and tried again.     Beside him, Vee Vee was silent, her face ecstatic, like the face of awoman in love.     He tried again for the space ship.     It would not come.     Anger came up instead.     Somehow he had the impression that the whirring sound which keptintruding into his consciousness was stopping the vision.     So far as he could tell, he was the only one present who was notdreaming, who was not in a state of trance.     His gaze went to Unger, the Dreamer....     Cold flowed over him.     Unger was slowly rising from the mat.     The bland face and the body in the robe were slowly floating upward!      III     An invisible force seemed to twitch at Johnson's skin, nipping it hereand there with a multitude of tiny pinches, like invisible fleas bitinghim.     This is it! a voice whispered in his mind. This is what you came toVenus to see. This ... this.... The first voice went into silence.Another voice took its place.     This is another damned vision! the second voice said. This ...this is something that is not real, that is not possible! No VenusianDreamer, and no one else, can levitate, can defy the laws of gravity,can float upward toward the ceiling. Your damned eyes are tricking you!     We are not tricking you! the eyes hotly insisted. It is happening.We are seeing it. We are reporting accurately to you. That VenusianBuddha is levitating. We, your eyes, do not lie to you!     You lied about the space ship! the second voice said.     We did not lie about the space ship! the eyes insisted. When ourmaster saw that ship we were out of focus, we were not reporting. Someother sense, some other organ, may have lied, but we did not.     I— Johnson whispered.     I am your skin, another voice whispered. I am covered with sweat.     We are your adrenals. We are pouring forth adrenalin.     I am your pancreas. I am gearing you for action.     I am your thyroid. I....     A multitude of tiny voices seemed to whisper through him. It was as ifthe parts of his body had suddenly found voices and were reporting tohim what they were doing. These were voices out of his training dayswhen he had learned the names of these functions and how to use them.     Be quiet! he said roughly.     The little voices seemed to blend into a single chorus. Action,Master! Do something.     Quiet! Johnson ordered.     But hurry. We are excited.     There is a time to be excited and a time to hurry. In this situation,if action is taken before the time for it—if that time ever comes—wecan all die.     Die? the chorus quavered.     Yes, Johnson said. Now be quiet. When the time goes we will all gotogether.     The chorus went into muted silence. But just under the threshold thelittle voices were a multitude of tiny fretful pressures.     I hear a whirring sound, his ears reported.     Please! Johnson said.     In the front of the room Unger floated ten feet above the floor.     Master, we are not lying! his eyes repeated.     I sweat.... his skin began.     Watch Unger! Johnson said.     The Dreamer floated. If wires suspended him, Johnson could not seethem. If any known force lifted him, Johnson could not detect thatforce. All he could say for certain was that Unger floated.     Yaaah! The silence of a room was broken by the enraged scream of aVenusian being jarred out of his dream.     Damn it! A human voice said.     A wave as sharp as the tip of a sword swept through the room.     Unger fell.     He was ten feet high when he started to fall. With a bone-breaking,body-jarring thud, the Dreamer fell. Hard.     There was a split second of startled silence in the Dreaming Room. Thesilence went. Voices came.     Who did that?     What happened?     That human hidden there did it! He broke the Dreaming! Anger markedthe voices. Although the language was Venusian, Johnson got most of themeaning. His hand dived under his coat for the gun holstered there. Athis left, Caldwell was muttering thickly. What—what happened? I wasback in the lab on Earth— Caldwell's voice held a plaintive note, asif some pleasant dream had been interrupted.     On Johnson's right, Vee Vee seemed to flow to life. Her arms came uparound his neck. He was instantly prepared for anything. Her lips camehungrily against his lips, pressed very hard, then gently drew away.     What— he gasped.     I had to do it now, darling, she answered. There may not be a later.     Johnson had no time to ask her what she meant. Somewhere in the backof the room a human screamed. He jerked around. Back there a knot ofVenusians were attacking a man.     It's Martin! Caldwell shouted. He      is     here!     In Johnson's hand as he came to his feet the zit gun throbbed. He firedblindly at the mass of Venusians. Caldwell was firing too. The softthrob of the guns was not audible above the uproar from the crowd.Struck by the gas-driven corvel charges, Venusians were falling. Butthere seemed to be an endless number of them.     Vee Vee? Johnson suddenly realized that she had disappeared. She hadslid out of his sight.     Vee Vee! Johnson's voice became a shout.     To hell with the woman! Caldwell grunted. Martin's the importantone.     Zit, zit, zit, Caldwell moved toward the rear, shooting as he went.Johnson followed.  <doc-sep></s>","Vee Vee is a woman described as very beautiful, with auburn hair, blue eyes and tanned skin. She wears a low-cut green dress and necklace and seems out of place at the dream bar, but unafraid. She introduces herself to Johnson and gets him to escort her to the Room of the Dreamer, even after Caldwell warns him that she has been asking for Martin. She attempts to use Karmer’s nerve paralysis on Johnson and he blocks it. Johnson says she is a child vampire and brings her into the Room of Dreaming; she says next time she’ll use Eve’s trick against him. She says his name and when he questions her, it turns out that she knows exactly who he is and what he does. She claims to have tried the paralysis trick to see if he would block it so she would know if it was him. Self-assured though she was before, she becomes quite frightened in the Room of the Dreamer. After Unger falls and chaos breaks out, she kisses Johnson and says she did it because she might not be able to later. Though he calls for her as he and Caldwell make their way towards Martin, Vee Vee’s whereabouts are unknown at the end of the passage. "
"<s>  THE SOUL EATERS     By WILLIAM CONOVER     Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance     to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose     ships were the scourge of the Void. But his     luck had run its course, and now he was     marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save     himself from a menace weapons could not kill.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]            And so, my dear     , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase,       I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by.          Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's.     The barbaric rhythms of the      Congahua     , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.     Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate.     A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.     It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla.     Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious      Verbena     , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian      Bacca-glas     , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote.     His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly.     Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there.  <doc-sep>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy.     Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever.     A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk.     Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse.     Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium!     Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?     Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could.       There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet.     Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this!     May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight!     May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war!     Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along!     O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life.     Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up.     Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency.     Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant.     Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting.     Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts.     Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.     The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices.     Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody.     The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense?     Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance.     Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now!     The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS.     So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen.     By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly.     An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there!     Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful.     Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth!     Very well. Grandmamma told me how.  <doc-sep>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things!     Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew!     She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago.     Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible!     Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government.     What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?     No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!     Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more.     But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work!     Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement.     More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely!     Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it!     I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.     What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this!     Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel.     Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature!     Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding.     Nonsense! You're only my wife!     And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.     Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!     Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view.     His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards!     Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now.     Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it!  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place on Venus at an unspecified point in the future. At the very beginning, the setting is outside on a rainy evening. On Venus, the rain falls in all directions, possibly including straight up. Johnson says that everything on Venus feels like it’s coming at him from all directions. He soon enters the club, a perfumed room with loud Venusian music, a bar that Johnson makes his way to, and “feeling states” that hit Johnson immediately; specifically feelings of love and sex designed to entice humans and Venusians. When they enter the Room of the Dreamer, the perfume becomes stronger and the music louder, playing harmonies that seem new to the ear. The room is massive and only semi-illuminated, with many tiered, carpet and pillow-lined ramps circling up from an empty space with only a mat and headrest. It feels pleasantly cool but also slightly damp, and guests are greeted by a strange, tangible energy. "
"<s>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things!     Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew!     She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago.     Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible!     Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government.     What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?     No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!     Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more.     But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work!     Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement.     More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely!     Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it!     I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.     What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this!     Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel.     Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature!     Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding.     Nonsense! You're only my wife!     And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.     Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!     Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view.     His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards!     Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now.     Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it!  <doc-sep>  THE SOUL EATERS     By WILLIAM CONOVER     Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance     to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose     ships were the scourge of the Void. But his     luck had run its course, and now he was     marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save     himself from a menace weapons could not kill.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]            And so, my dear     , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase,       I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by.          Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's.     The barbaric rhythms of the      Congahua     , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.     Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate.     A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.     It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla.     Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious      Verbena     , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian      Bacca-glas     , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote.     His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly.     Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there.  <doc-sep>  The CONJURER of VENUS     By CONAN T. TROY       A world-famed Earth scientist had disappeared on Venus.       When Johnson found him, he found too the secret to that       globe-shaking mystery—the fabulous Room of The Dreaming.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories November 1952.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The city dripped with rain. Crossing the street toward the dive,Johnson got rain in his eyes, his nose, and his ears. That was the waywith the rain here. It came at you from all directions. There had beenoccasions when Johnson had thought the rain was falling straight up.Otherwise, how had the insides of his pants gotten wet?     On Venus, everything came at you from all directions, it seemed toJohnson. Opening the door of the joint, it was noise instead of rainthat came at him, the wild frantic beat of a Venusian rhumba, thenotes pounding and jumping through the smoke and perfume clouded room.Feeling states came at him, intangible, but to his trained senses,perceptible emotional nuances of hate, love, fear, and rage. But mostlylove. Since this place had been designed to excite the senses of bothhumans and Venusians, the love feelings were heavily tinged withstraight sex. He sniffed at them, feeling them somewhere inside of him,aware of them but aware also that here was apprehension, and plain fear.     Caldwell, sitting in a booth next to the door, glanced up as Johnsonentered but neither Caldwell's facial expression or his eyes revealedthat he had ever seen this human before. Nor did Johnson seem torecognize Caldwell.     Is the mighty human wanting liquor, a woman or dreams? His voicewas all soft syllables of liquid sound. The Venusian equivalent of aheadwaiter was bowing to him.     I'll have a tarmur to start, Johnson said. How are the dreamstonight?     Ze vill be the most wonserful of all sonight. The great Unger hisselfwill be here to do ze dreaming. There is no ozzer one who has quitehis touch at dreaming, mighty one. The headwaiter spread his handsin a gesture indicating ecstasy. It is my great regret that I must doze work tonight instead of being wiz ze dreamers. Ah, ze great Ungerhisself! The headwaiter kissed the tips of his fingers.     Um, Johnson said. The great Unger! His voice expressed surprise,just the right amount of it. I'll have a tarmur to start but when doesthe dreaming commence?     In one zonar or maybe less. Shall I make ze reservations for ze mightyone? As he was speaking, the headwaiter was deftly conducting Johnsonto the bar.     Not just yet, Johnson said. See me a little later.     But certainly. The headwaiter was gone into the throng. Johnson wasat the bar. Behind it, a Venusian was bowing to him. Tarmur, Johnsonsaid. The green drink was set before him. He held it up to the light,admiring the slow rise of the tiny golden bubbles in it. To him,watching the bubbles rise was perhaps more important than drinkingitself.     Beautiful, aren't they? a soft voice said. He glanced to his right.A girl had slid into the stool beside him. She wore a green dress cutvery low at the throat. Her skin had the pleasant tan recently onEarth. Her hair was a shade of abundant brown and her eyes were blue,the color of the skies of Earth. A necklace circled her throat andbelow the necklace ... Johnson felt his pulse quicken, for two reasons.Women such as this one had been quickening the pulse of men since thedays of Adam. The second reason concerned her presence here in thisplace where no woman in her right mind ever came unescorted. Her eyessmiled up at him unafraid. Didn't she know there were men present herein this space port city who would snatch her bodily from the barstool and carry her away for sleeping purposes? And Venusians werehere who would cut her pretty throat for the sake of the necklace thatcircled it?     They      are     beautiful, he said, smiling.     Thank you.     I was referring to the bubbles.     You were talking about my eyes, she answered, unperturbed.     How did you know? I mean....     I am very knowing, the girl said, smiling.     Are you sufficiently knowing to be here?     For an instant, as if doubt crossed her mind, the smile flickered. Thenit came again, stronger. Aren't you here?     Johnson choked as bubbles from the tarmur seemed to go suddenly up hisnose. My dear child ... he sputtered.     I am not a child, she answered with a firm sureness that left nodoubt in his mind that she knew what she was saying. And my name isVee Vee.     Vee Vee? Um. That is....     Don't you think it's a nice name?     I certainly do. Probably the rest of it is even nicer.     There is no more of it. Just Vee Vee. Like Topsy, I just grew.  <doc-sep></s>","The culture on Venus is complex and futuristic, and seems to cater to both Venusians and humans. Women don’t appear to have a particularly high status. A bar like the one the story takes place in is apparently not safe for unaccompanied women, based on Johnson’s initial reaction to her being there alone; he worries that Earth men might abduct her for sex and that Venusians might kill her to steal her jewelry. When Johnson enters, the head waiter asks if he wants liquor, women, or dreams, implying that sex work or some other transactional use of “women” is at play there. Through its use of “feeling states”, the Venusian nightlife appears to have commodified the emotions that people already possess in an attempt to entice, confuse, and manipulate. The popularity of “dreaming” further shows an emphasis on escape and illusion in this culture. The drinks served also seem as much a visual experience as a drinking experience: the bar seems to want to stimulate all senses. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep></s>","Ferdinand is a young man accompanying his sister Evelyn on a spaceliner called the Eleanor Roosevelt with 300 hundred other women. The final destination of the spaceship is Venus, where the women hope to find a husband. Although women are in charge, the crew of the ship is all men. Ferdinand decides to explore the ship, and he encounters a large red sign forbidding passengers from entering the next deck. Despite being hesitant at first, he decides to break the law anyway because he is technically not a passenger on the ship. Ferdinand is amazed to see the stars, the moon, and another spaceliner take off in space. Unfazed by the next sign that tells unauthorized personnel to leave, he goes to the porthole and tries to figure out a way to open it by trying various methods. Suddenly, the door opens, and a large man plucks him inside by the throat. The man recognizes him as a brother to one of the Anura, which he defines as a herd of women looking for mates. Ferdinand explains his childhood in the Undersea and his parents, to which the other man listens intently. He also mentions that he and his sister have left Earth because she realized there would be no future there. All men have either died in wars, become negatively affected by radioactivity, or gone off to the planets. Then, the older man explains that there are little to no women on Venus, and he had no idea that women were in charge when he first went to Earth to find a wife. He had been arrested and was charged but decided to become a stowaway instead. The man, who introduces himself as Alberta (Butt) Lee Brown, gives Ferdinand the nickname Ford and talks more about his past. Eventually, he asks more about Evelyn, and Ferdinand does not overthink his intentions when he answers. Later, Evelyn then forces Ferdinand to go to a geography lecture with her, where she continuously asks questions and takes notes. However, she does not write down his answer after he corrects the purser and instead takes him back to the cabin to lecture him. They begin to debate, and Ferdinand begins to use the words and knowledge he learned from Butt. Evelyn is suspicious that somebody has been feeding him rebellious opinions, and she begins to hound him for answers after seeing he has a photo of her in his pocket. He then takes Evelyn to see Butt, and she begins to lecture him about breaking the law. While the both of them debate over Butt’s status as a criminal and stowaway, he suddenly suggests that they should get married. Evelyn is surprised by his proposal, and Ferdinand eagerly urges her to accept it. "
"<s>Then I passed Deck Twelve and there was a big sign. Notice! Passengersnot permitted past this point! A big sign in red.     I peeked around the corner. I knew it—the next deck was the hull. Icould see the portholes. Every twelve feet, they were, filled with thevelvet of space and the dancing of more stars than I'd ever dreamedexisted in the Universe.     There wasn't anyone on the deck, as far as I could see. And thisdistance from the grav helix, the ship seemed mighty quiet and lonely.If I just took one quick look....     But I thought of what Sis would say and I turned around obediently.Then I saw the big red sign again. Passengers not permitted—     Well! Didn't I know from my civics class that only women could be EarthCitizens these days? Sure, ever since the Male Desuffrage Act. Anddidn't I know that you had to be a citizen of a planet in order toget an interplanetary passport? Sis had explained it all to me in thecareful, patient way she always talks politics and things like that tomen.     Technically, Ferdinand, I'm the only passenger in our family. Youcan't be one, because, not being a citizen, you can't acquire an EarthPassport. However, you'll be going to Venus on the strength of thisclause—'Miss Evelyn Sparling and all dependent male members of family,this number not to exceed the registered quota of sub-regulationspertaining'—and so on. I want you to understand these matters, so thatyou will grow into a man who takes an active interest in world affairs.No matter what you hear, women really like and appreciate such men.     Of course, I never pay much attention to Sis when she says such dumbthings. I'm old enough, I guess, to know that it isn't what      Women     like and appreciate that counts when it comes to people gettingmarried. If it were, Sis and three hundred other pretty girls like herwouldn't be on their way to Venus to hook husbands.     Still, if I wasn't a passenger, the sign didn't have anything to dowith me. I knew what Sis could say to      that     , but at least it was anargument I could use if it ever came up. So I broke the law.     I was glad I did. The stars were exciting enough, but away off tothe left, about five times as big as I'd ever seen it, except in themovies, was the Moon, a great blob of gray and white pockmarks holdingoff the black of space. I was hoping to see the Earth, but I figured itmust be on the other side of the ship or behind us. I pressed my noseagainst the port and saw the tiny flicker of a spaceliner taking off,Marsbound. I wished I was on that one!     Then I noticed, a little farther down the companionway, a stretch ofblank wall where there should have been portholes. High up on thewall in glowing red letters were the words, Lifeboat 47. Passengers:Thirty-two. Crew: Eleven. Unauthorized personnel keep away!     Another one of those signs.  <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet.     Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway....     I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it.     Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it.     I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And      she     —     She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata.      Bossy, opinionated.     By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever....     And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation.     How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me?  <doc-sep>He cocked his head and considered a moment. Look, he said finally,I have more than enough munit to pay for round trip tickets, but Icouldn't get a return visa because of that brinosaur judge and allthe charges she hung on me. Had to stow away. Picked the      EleanorRoosevelt     because a couple of the boys in the crew are friends of mineand they were willing to help. But this lifeboat—don't you know thatevery passenger ship carries four times as many lifeboats as it needs?Not to mention the food I didn't eat because it stuck in my throat?     Yes, she said bitterly. You had this boy steal fresh fruit for you.I suppose you didn't know that under space regulations that makes himequally guilty?     No, Sis, he didn't, I was beginning to argue. All he wanted—     Sure I knew. Also know that if I'm picked up as a stowaway, I'll besent back to Earth to serve out those fancy little sentences.     Well, you're guilty of them, aren't you?     He waved his hands at her impatiently. I'm not talking law, female;I'm talking sense. Listen! I'm in trouble because I went to Earth tolook for a wife. You're standing here right now because you're on yourway to Venus for a husband. So let's.     Sis actually staggered back. Let's? Let's      what     ? Are—are you daringto suggest that—that—     Now, Miss Sparling, no hoopla. I'm saying let's get married, and youknow it. You figured out from what the boy told you that I was chewingon you for a wife. You're healthy and strong, got good heredity, youknow how to operate sub-surface machinery, you've lived underwater, andyour disposition's no worse than most of the anura I've seen. Prolificstock, too.     I was so excited I just had to yell: Gee, Sis, say      yes     !  <doc-sep></s>","Evelyn Sparling is the older sister of Ferdinand Sparling. She is seven years older than him and was born in the Undersea. Her parents were one of the first people to get married in the Undersea, and her mom was an Undersea representative in the World Council. Furthermore, her mom was heavily involved in the Male Desuffrage Act and the Maternal Revolution before being blown up in a surfacing boat alongside her husband. Evelyn herself is proficient in operating sub-surface machinery, believes firmly in the ideals of women leading politics, and is also very focused on affairs that other women do not care much about. She is also skilled at detecting lies, seeing past Ferdinand’s lies that he spoke of to protect Butt’s identity. Moreover, she has a very assertive personality. She did not back down from correcting Ferdinand about the opinions he picked up from Butt, which she classifies as masculinist and anti-socialist. Even if Butt is an intimidating man, her righteousness still shines through when she begins to scold him for escaping Earth on the Eleanor Roosevelt and about how he is also implicating Ferdinand in breaking the law by having the younger boy deliver fruit to him. Despite Evelyn’s forceful nature, she does care for her younger brother and tells him what women appreciate in men. "
"<s>He opened his mouth to its maximum width and raised an enormous hand.Then he let the air out and dropped his arm.     I take it you either have no defense or care to make none, Sis addedcaustically.     Butt laughed slowly and carefully as if he were going over each word.Wonder if all the anura talk like that. And      you     want to foul upVenus.     We haven't done so badly on Earth, after the mess you men made ofpolitics. It needed a revolution of the mothers before—     Needed nothing. Everyone wanted peace. Earth is a weary old world.     It's a world of strong moral fiber compared to yours, Mr. Alberta LeeBrown. Hearing his rightful name made him move suddenly and tower overher. Sis said with a certain amount of hurry and change of tone, What      do     you have to say about stowing away and using up lifeboat stores?  <doc-sep>For a moment, I didn't understand him. When I did, I was almost ill.Y-you mean, I choked, th-that you're b-breaking the law right now?And I'm with you while you're doing it?     He leaned over the edge of the bunk and stared at me very seriously.What breed of tadpole are they turning out these days? Besides, whatbusiness do      you     have this close to the hull?     After a moment of sober reflection, I nodded. You're right. I've alsobecome a male outside the law. We're in this together.     He guffawed. Then he sat up and began cleaning his blaster. I foundmyself drawn to the bright killer-tube with exactly the fascination Sisinsists such things have always had for men.     Ferdinand your label? That's not right for a sprouting tadpole. I'llcall you Ford. My name's Butt. Butt Lee Brown.     I liked the sound of Ford. Is Butt a nickname, too?     Yeah. Short for Alberta, but I haven't found a man who can draw ablaster fast enough to call me that. You see, Pop came over in theeighties—the big wave of immigrants when they evacuated Ontario. Namedall us boys after Canadian provinces. I was the youngest, so I got thename they were saving for a girl.     You had a lot of brothers, Mr. Butt?     He grinned with a mighty set of teeth. Oh, a nestful. Of course, theywere all killed in the Blue Chicago Rising by the MacGregor boys—allexcept me and Saskatchewan. Then Sas and me hunted the MacGregors down.Took a heap of time; we didn't float Jock MacGregor's ugly face downthe Tuscany till both of us were pretty near grown up.     I walked up close to where I could see the tiny bright copper coils ofthe blaster above the firing button. Have you killed a lot of men withthat, Mr. Butt?     Butt. Just plain Butt to you, Ford. He frowned and sighted atthe light globe. No more'n twelve—not counting five governmentpaddlefeet, of course. I'm a peaceable planter. Way I figure it,violence never accomplishes much that's important. My brother Sas,now—  <doc-sep>He had just begun to work into a wonderful anecdote about his brotherwhen the dinner gong rang. Butt told me to scat. He said I was agrowing tadpole and needed my vitamins. And he mentioned, veryoff-hand, that he wouldn't at all object if I brought him some freshfruit. It seemed there was nothing but processed foods in the lifeboatand Butt was used to a farmer's diet.     Trouble was, he was a special kind of farmer. Ordinary fruit would havebeen pretty easy to sneak into my pockets at meals. I even found a wayto handle the kelp and giant watercress Mr. Brown liked, but thingslike seaweed salt and Venusian mud-grapes just had too strong a smell.Twice, the mechanical hamper refused to accept my jacket for launderingand I had to wash it myself. But I learned so many wonderful thingsabout Venus every time I visited that stowaway....     I learned three wild-wave songs of the Flatfolk and what it is that thenative Venusians hate so much; I learned how you tell the differencebetween a lousy government paddlefoot from New Kalamazoo and theslaptoe slinker who is the planter's friend. After a lot of begging,Butt Lee Brown explained the workings of his blaster, explained itso carefully that I could name every part and tell what it did fromthe tiny round electrodes to the long spirals of transformer. But nomatter what, he would never let me hold it.     Sorry, Ford, old tad, he would drawl, spinning around and around inthe control swivel-chair at the nose of the lifeboat. But way I lookat it, a man who lets somebody else handle his blaster is like thegiant whose heart was in an egg that an enemy found. When you've grownenough so's your pop feels you ought to have a weapon, why, then's thetime to learn it and you might's well learn fast. Before then, you'replain too young to be even near it.     I don't have a father to give me one when I come of age. I don't evenhave an older brother as head of my family like your brother Labrador.All I have is Sis. And      she     —     She'll marry some fancy dryhorn who's never been farther South thanthe Polar Coast. And she'll stay head of the family, if I know herbreed of green shata.      Bossy, opinionated.     By the way, Fordie, hesaid, rising and stretching so the fish-leather bounced and rippled offhis biceps, that sister. She ever....     And he'd be off again, cross-examining me about Evelyn. I sat in theswivel chair he'd vacated and tried to answer his questions. But therewas a lot of stuff I didn't know. Evelyn was a healthy girl, forinstance; how healthy, exactly, I had no way of finding out. Yes, I'dtell him, my aunts on both sides of my family each had had more thanthe average number of children. No, we'd never done any farming tospeak of, back in Undersea, but—yes, I'd guess Evelyn knew about asmuch as any girl there when it came to diving equipment and pressurepump regulation.     How would I know that stuff would lead to trouble for me?  <doc-sep></s>","Alberta Lee Brown, nicknamed Butt, is the man from Venus who Ferdinand meets when he explores the spaceliner. Butt used to have a very large family, and his father immigrated in the eighties after being evacuated from Ontario. His family also consisted of many brothers, also named after Canadian provinces, Unfortunately, all of his brothers except Saskatchewan and him were murdered  by the MacGregor boys in an incident known as the Blue Chicago Rising. He is not one to usually act brutally, but he has not hesitated to pull the trigger on people who have wronged him. Butt has great knowledge of his blaster and is capable of explaining everything about it to Ferdinant. Additionally, he tells Ferdinand that he has killed twelve people, excluding the five government personnel, and that he considers his brother as someone who is much more willing to resort to violence. Although he is usually level-headed, Butt is also a very blunt person. He is not afraid to tell Ferdinand what he thinks of Earth, and his actions of breaking the law as a criminal on the run show that he is more than willing to take dangerous risks if he disagrees with something. Butt also tends to act rashly, suggesting to Evelyn that they get married during their first meeting despite never having interacted with her before and only having an impression of her based on what Ferdinand told him earlier. "
"<s>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   <doc-sep>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things!     Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew!     She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago.     Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible!     Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government.     What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?     No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!     Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more.     But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work!     Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement.     More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely!     Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it!     I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.     What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this!     Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel.     Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature!     Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding.     Nonsense! You're only my wife!     And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.     Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!     Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view.     His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards!     Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now.     Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it!  <doc-sep>Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal.     No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices.     Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame.     Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints!     Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he?     So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run.     Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum.     Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em.     Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys.     With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much?     Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman?     Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully.     Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast!     Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever.     O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone!     At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta!     Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago.  <doc-sep></s>","Women are generally given positions of power and have significant influence over political matters on Earth. Most of the hard labor is left to the men instead of the women. Ferdinand mentions that the crews on the spaceliner ships are always men, as women fulfill the more important tasks of running governments. It is also revealed that only women can become Earth Citizens because of the Male Desuffrage Act, which means that men cannot get an interplanetary passport. In many situations, women have the final say as well. When Butt was arrested on Earth, he could only use a female attorney to communicate his thoughts. Compared to the women, the men on Earth face much more restrictions and must follow what they say at all times. The number of men on Earth has greatly diminished, and the population primarily consists of women. On the other hand, Venus is primarily male-inhabited, and there is a scarcity of women there. Butt says that he is unused to the saying it's a woman's world because women do not run Venus, unlike Earth. He also told his attorney that on Venus, a man could speak freely if he wanted to, and a woman's role is to support him. Men can also make a law whenever they wish with their own guns and that they should not wholly be subservient to the rule of women. "
"<s>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  <doc-sep>The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinkingpinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tinyfigure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplifiedbreathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitationto blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of theinsidiously deadly Sigma radiations.     Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotchagainst the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, startedcutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual taskrequiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly onthe events that had brought him here.     First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigmafor the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield wasperfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had beeninherently poor.     Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But menhad found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm thathad shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.     Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had beenwell within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a roundtrip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.     But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of governmentand various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueledto within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned byspecialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alienconditions.     On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred towhichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition.That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage withcolonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.     Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of theexperts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions,he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in VenusColony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever formwas most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to studynative Venusian materials.     Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When thelimited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced torely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtledelayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusianmaterials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.     Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years ofloneliness had come to an end.     She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectualdespite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the momentof first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressedemotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone,and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-mindeddevotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under hisinsistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.     But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of thebusiness manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carrieda considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure tovirtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.     The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had openedto her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantlyexpensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed somefactor in his personality that had made her hesitate.     Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike ofrivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, andhad made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to havehimself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.     But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and witha fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.     He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch byinch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, butenough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel intostuttering action.     Then it was done.     As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had tostart according to calculations.  <doc-sep>   IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is mainly set on the Eleanor Roosevelt spaceliner. The ship is a luxury liner, and there are purple lights in front of the doors that light up when a girl is inside on her hammock. Ferdinand describes the ship as being very large, consisting of smooth black walls and white doors that seem to go on endlessly. There are multiple numbered decks and steam jets. The engines and machinery are all properly oiled. Multiple portholes line the hulls, and there is the feeling of gravity underfoot. Many emergency-use spacesuits in glass cases also line the crossways. Some of the decks also have signs with glowing red letters that warn passengers not to enter further. The portholes are described to have no knobs, switches, or even a button to press to open them. Inside the portholes, there are also bunks for the lifeboats. Some of the other amenities on the ship include a dining salon, library, and numbered lifeboat sections for passengers to go to if there is an emergency. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE ***    Stalemate In Space     By CHARLES L. HARNESS     Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous     death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison.     Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage     the main battle raged—where a girl swayed     sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears.           Die now—die now—die now     —     Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly.           Die now—die now—die now     —     The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost.     The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else.     She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space.     But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past.     For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched      The Defender     grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe,      The Invader     , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy,      The Defender     was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned.     The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle.       The Defender     , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met      The Invader     with giantfission torpedoes.     And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken      Defender     .     The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer      The Defender's     outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father.     In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave      TheDefender     . Be on it.     No. I shall die here.     His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle.     There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful.     But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality.     She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present.     That time had come.     With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die.     She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific.     With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box.     It was a shattered ruin.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Evelyn Kane finds herself in pain in the middle of fighting spaceships. She realizes that her nation has lost after 9 years of war and remembers about her task to explode both ships. When she resolves to press the button, it doesn’t work. By deception, she manages to defeat the guards on the ship. Then she gets to the inquisitor and by control of his mind makes him set her free and send her to another zone as a clerk. There a supervisor gets suspicious of her transfer but she convinces him in her honesty. After that she meets Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns, her main aim, and is forced to shoot her own father not to be uncovered. From that moment she becomes a private dancer for Perat by night, and a spy into the officers’ minds by day. One day Perat showed Evelyn a reel of his father, a boy, and a woman very much alike her. This reel was sent by his father with a greeting from Perat’s wife and son, though he was not married. Then the mysterious topic changes and Perat asks Evelyn to accompany him to the execution of the foolish inquisitor. Scared of being recognised by the inquisitor she used a dangerous perfume capable of causing death and entered the room. "
"<s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE ***    Stalemate In Space     By CHARLES L. HARNESS     Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous     death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison.     Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage     the main battle raged—where a girl swayed     sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears.           Die now—die now—die now     —     Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly.           Die now—die now—die now     —     The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost.     The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else.     She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space.     But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past.     For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched      The Defender     grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe,      The Invader     , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy,      The Defender     was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned.     The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle.       The Defender     , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met      The Invader     with giantfission torpedoes.     And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken      Defender     .     The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer      The Defender's     outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father.     In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave      TheDefender     . Be on it.     No. I shall die here.     His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle.     There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful.     But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality.     She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present.     That time had come.     With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die.     She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific.     With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box.     It was a shattered ruin.  <doc-sep>Her heart was beating faster as she walked down the hall. She felt avery strong probe flooding over her brain casually, palping with mildinterest the artificial memories she supplied: Escapades with officersin the combat areas. Reprimands. Demotion and transfer. Her deceptionof Gorph. Her anticipation of meeting a real Viscount and hoping hewould let her dance for him.     The questing probe withdrew as idly as it had come, and she breatheda sigh of relief. She could not hope to deceive a suspicious telepathfor long. Perat was merely amused at her lie to his under-supervisor.He had accepted her at her own face value, as supplied by her falsememories.     She opened the door to the balcony and saw a man leaning moodily on thebalustrade. He gave no immediate notice of her presence.     The five hundred and sixth heir of Tharn was of uncertain age, as weremost of the men of both globes. Only the left side of his face could beseen. It was gaunt and leathery, and a deep thin scar lifted the cornerof his mouth into a satanic smile. A faint paunch was gathering at hisabdomen, as befitted a warrior turned to boring paper work. His closelycut black hair and the two sparkling red-gemmed rings—apparentlyidentical—on his right hand seemed to denote a certain fastidiousnessand unconscious superiority. To Evelyn the jeweled fingers bespoke anunnatural contrast to the past history of the man and were symptomaticof a personality that could find stimulation only in strange and cruelpleasures.     In alarm she suddenly realized that she had inadvertently let herappraisal penetrate her uncovered conscious mind, and that this probewas there awaiting it.     You are right, he said coldly, still staring into the court below.Now that the long battle is over, there is little left to divert me.     He pushed the Faeg across the coping toward her. Take this.     He had not as yet looked at her.     She crossed the balcony, simultaneously grasping the pistol he offeredher and looking down into the courtyard. There seemed to be nearlytwenty Terrans lying about, in pools of their own blood.     Only one man, a Terran officer of very high rank—was left standing.His arms were folded somberly across his chest, and he studied thekiller above him almost casually. But when the woman came out, theireyes met, and he started imperceptibly.     Evelyn Kane felt a horrid chill creeping over her. The man's hair waswhite, now, and his proud face lined with deep furrows, but there couldbe no mistake. It was Gordon, Lord Kane.     Her father.     The sweat continued to grow on her forehead, and she felt for a momentthat she needed only to wish hard enough, and this would be a dream.A dream of a big, kind, dark-haired man with laugh-wrinkles about hiseyes, who sat her on his knee when she was a little girl and readbedtime stories to her from a great book with many pictures.     An icy, amused voice came through: Our orders are to kill allprisoners. It is entertaining to shoot down helpless men, isn't it? Itwarms me to know that I am cruel and wanton, and worthy of my trust.     Even in the midst of her horror, a cold, analytical part of her wasexplaining why the Commandant had called her to the balcony. Becauseall captured Terrans had to be killed, he hated his superiors, his ownmen, and especially the prisoners. A task so revolting he could notrelegate to his own officers. He must do it himself, but he wanted hisunderlings to know he loathed them for it. She was merely a symbol ofthat contempt. His next words did not surprise her.     It is even more stimulating to require a shuddering female to killthem. You are shuddering you know?     She nodded dumbly. Her palm was so wet that a drop of sweat droppedfrom it to the floor. She was thinking hard. She could kill theCommandant and save her father for a little while. But then theproblem of detonating the pile remained, and it would not be solvedmore quickly by killing the man who controlled the pile area. On thecontrary if she could get him interested in her—     So far as our records indicate, murmured Perat, the man down thereis the last living Terran within      The Defender     . It occurred to me thatour newest clerk would like to start off her duties with a bang. TheFaeg is adjusted to a needle-beam. If you put a bolt between the man'seyes, you may dance for me tonight, and perhaps there will be othernights—     The woman seemed lost in thought for a long time. Slowly, she liftedthe ugly little weapon. The doomed Terran looked up at her peacefully,without expression. She lowered the Faeg, her arm trembling.     Gordon, Lord Kane, frowned faintly, then closed his eyes. She raisedthe gun again, drew cross hairs with a nerveless wrist, and squeezedthe trigger. There was a loud, hollow cough, but no recoil. The Terranofficer, his eyes still closed and arms folded, sank to the ground,face up. Blood was running from a tiny hole in his forehead.     The man leaning on the balustrade turned and looked at Evelyn, at firstwith amused contempt, then with narrowing, questioning eyes.     Come here, he ordered.     The Faeg dropped from her hand. With a titanic effort she activated herlegs and walked toward him.     He was studying her face very carefully.     She felt that she was going to be sick. Her knees were so weak that shehad to lean on the coping.     With a forefinger he lifted up the mass of golden curls that hungover her right forehead and examined the scar hidden there, where thementors had cut into her frontal lobe. The tiny doll they had createdfor her writhed uneasily in her waist-purse, but Perat seemed to bethinking of something else, and missed the significance of the scarcompletely.     He dropped his hand. I'm sorry, he said with a quiet weariness. Ishouldn't have asked you to kill the Terran. It was a sorry joke.Then: Have you ever seen me before?     No, she whispered hoarsely. His mind was in hers, verifying the fact.     Have you ever met my father, Phaen, the old Count of Tharn?     No.     Do you have a son?     No.     His mind was out of hers again, and he had turned moodily back,surveying the courtyard and the dead. Gorph will be wondering whathappened to you. Come to my quarters at the eighth metron tonight.     Apparently he suspected nothing.       Father. Father. I had to do it. But we'll all join you, soon. Soon.        III     Perat lay on his couch, sipping cold purple      terif     and following thethinly-clad dancer with narrowed eyes. Music, soft and subtle, floatedfrom his communications box, illegally tuned to an officer's clubsomewhere. Evelyn made the rhythm part of her as she swayed slowly ontiptoe.     For the last thirty nights—the hours allotted to rest and sleep—ithad been thus. By day she probed furtively into the minds of theoffice staff, memorizing area designations, channels for officialmessages, and the names and authorizations of occupational field crews.By night she danced for Perat, who never took his eyes from her, norhis probe from her mind. While she danced it was not too difficult toelude the probe. There was an odd autohypnosis in dancing that blottedout memory and knowledge.     Enough for now, he ordered. Careful of your rib.     When he had first seen the bandages on her bare chest, that firstnight, she had been ready with a memory of dancing on a freshly waxedfloor, and of falling.     Perat seemed to be debating with himself as she sat down on her owncouch to rest. He got up, unlocked his desk, and drew out a tiny reelof metal wire, which Evelyn recognized as being feed for an amateurstereop projector. He placed the reel in a projector that had beeninstalled in the wall, flicked off the table luminar, and both of themwaited in the dark, breathing rather loudly.     Suddenly the center of the room was bright with a ball of light sometwo feet in diameter, and inside the luminous sphere were an old man, awoman, and a little boy of about four years. They were walking througha luxurious garden, and then they stopped, looked up, and waved gaily.     Evelyn studied the trio with growing wonder. The old man and the boywere complete strangers.      But the woman—!       That is Phaen, my father, said Perat quietly. He stayed at homebecause he hated war. And that is a path in our country estate onTharn-R-VII. The little boy I fail to recognize, beyond a generalresemblance to the Tharn line.     But—      can you deny that you are the woman     ?     The stereop snapped off, and she sat wordless in the dark.     There seemed to be some similarity— she admitted. Her throat wassuddenly dry. Yet, why should she be alarmed? She really didn't knowthe woman.     The table luminar was on now, and Perat was prowling hungrily about theroom, his scar twisting his otherwise handsome face into a snarlingscowl.     Similarity! Bah! That loop of hair over her right forehead hid a scaridentical to yours. I have had the individual frames analyzed!     Evelyn's hands knotted unconsciously. She forced her body to relax, buther mind was racing. This introduced another variable to be controlledin her plan for destruction. She      must     make it a known quantity.     Did your father send it to you? she asked.     The day before you arrived here. It had been en route for months, ofcourse.     What did he say about it?     He said, 'Your widow and son send greetings. Be of good cheer, andaccept our love.' What nonsense! He knows very well I'm not married andthat—well, if I have ever fathered any children, I don't know aboutthem.     Is that all he said?     That's all, except that he included this ring. He pulled one of theduplicate jewels from his right middle finger and tossed it to her.It's identical to the one he had made for me when I entered on mymajority. For a long time it was thought that it was the only stone ofits kind on all the planets of the Tharn suns, a mineralogical freak,but I guess he found another. But why should I want two of them?     Evelyn crossed the room and returned the ring.     Existence is so full of mysteries, isn't it? murmured Perat.Sometimes it seems unfortunate that we must pass through a sentientphase on our way to death. This foolish, foolish war. Maybe the oldcount was right.     You could be courtmartialed for that.     Speaking of courtmartials, I've got to attend one tonight—an appealfrom a death sentence. He arose, smoothed his hair and clothes, andpoured another glass of      terif     . Some fool inquisitor can't showproper disposition of a woman prisoner.     Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. Indeed?     The wretch insists that he could remember if we would just let himalone. I suppose he took a bribe. You'll find one now and then whotries for a little extra profit.     She must absolutely not be seen by the condemned inquisitor. Thestimulus would almost certainly make him remember.     I'll wait for you, she said indifferently, thrusting her arms out ina languorous yawn.     Very well. Perat stepped to the door, then turned and looked back ather. On the other hand, I may need a clerk. It's way after hours, andthe others have gone.     Beneath a gesture of wry protest, she swallowed rapidly.     Perhaps you'd better come, insisted Perat.     She stood up, unloosed her waist-purse, checked its contents swiftly,and then followed him out.     This might be a very close thing. From the purse she took a bottle ofperfume and rubbed her ear lobes casually.     Odd smell, commented Perat, wrinkling his nose.     Odd scent, corrected Evelyn cryptically. She was thinking aboutthe earnest faces of the mentors as they instructed her carefully inthe use of the perfume. The adrenalin glands, they had explained,provided a useful and powerful stimulant to a man in danger. Adrenalinslowed the heart and digestion, increased the systole and bloodpressure, and increased perspiration to cool the skin. But therecould be too much of a good thing. An overdose of adrenalin, they hadpointed out, caused almost immediate edema. The lungs filled rapidlywith the serum and the victim ... drowned. The perfume she possessedover-stimulated, in some unknown way, the adrenals of frightenedpersons. It had no effect on inactive adrenals.     The question remained—who would be the more frightened, she or thecondemned inquisitor?     She was perspiring freely, and the blonde hair on her arms and neck wasstanding stiffly when Perat opened the door for her and they enteredthe Zone Provost's chambers.  <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis.     She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space.     Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies.     Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness.     Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector.     The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot.     Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway.     Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out.        She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling.        Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman.      II     The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him.     Name?     Evelyn Kane.     The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him?     He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess.     Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk.     The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice.     She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three.     If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information.     So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother.     Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder.     Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned.     Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically.     What is the extent of his jurisdiction?     From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius.     Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant.     The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom.     You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.'     The man's pen scratched away obediently.     Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered.     He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered.     This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One.     When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing.  <doc-sep></s>","Evelyn was very close with her father as a child and she has a lot of warm memories of their moments together. Her father was the commander of the Defender, a powerful man, Lord Kane. He wanted to save his daughter by putting her on the last ship leaving the Defender, but she decided to stay and die with her people. This decision impressed her father, and after a brief evaluation he decided to make use of her and give her the most important task - explode both ships. Therefore, their relationship is both caring but professional and with the feeling of duty. While resolving to press the button, Evelyn remembered her father and that helped her decision. After her escape and getting to the Viscount she had to end her relationship with her father by shooting him. Trembling, full of emotions and desire to save him, Evelyn was still able to shoot as she didn't see another positive solution for them both. She felt sad and sorry, but she felt she did the right think and would soon join her father in death."
"<s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE ***    Stalemate In Space     By CHARLES L. HARNESS     Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous     death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison.     Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage     the main battle raged—where a girl swayed     sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears.           Die now—die now—die now     —     Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly.           Die now—die now—die now     —     The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost.     The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else.     She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space.     But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past.     For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched      The Defender     grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe,      The Invader     , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy,      The Defender     was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned.     The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle.       The Defender     , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met      The Invader     with giantfission torpedoes.     And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken      Defender     .     The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer      The Defender's     outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father.     In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave      TheDefender     . Be on it.     No. I shall die here.     His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle.     There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful.     But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality.     She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present.     That time had come.     With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die.     She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific.     With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box.     It was a shattered ruin.  <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis.     She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space.     Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies.     Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness.     Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector.     The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot.     Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway.     Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out.        She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling.        Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman.      II     The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him.     Name?     Evelyn Kane.     The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him?     He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess.     Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk.     The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice.     She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three.     If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information.     So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother.     Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder.     Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned.     Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically.     What is the extent of his jurisdiction?     From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius.     Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant.     The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom.     You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.'     The man's pen scratched away obediently.     Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered.     He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered.     This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One.     When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing.  <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk.     Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere.     She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire.     What is that? she asked the transport attendant.     The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically.     Oh.     Where did you want to go?     To the personnel office.     That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact.     She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick.     A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her.     In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy.     The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa.     I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.?     She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly.     The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that      you     , that is, I mean—     Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber.     Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer.     S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that—     He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen.     Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph.     Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing.     As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing.  <doc-sep></s>","First, she decided to appear harmless in the struggle and left her weapon in the cubicle. She took only three things in a small bag with her when exiting her spot. Then she detected a corporal and when facing him, stretched luxuriously to change his mind to shoot her or notify his man. That was a manipulation of a woman using her charm not to get killed. When he didn't expect it, she mentally attacked the corporal to death and put on his clothes. This was her Scythian trick. When Evelyn met the inquisitor and the guards, she analyzed their minds again and with a little use of her feminine charm she pretended to be willing to give some interesting information  to the inquisitor one on one. That way she got rid of the guards, also by challenging the inquisitor asking to stay one on one if he is not afraid. Then she forced his mind to answer her questions and fill the blanks for her passage to the Occupational Commandant as a clerk and set her free. Then his memory and the guards' about her were deleted by her force of mind. When she reached the supervisor of her transfer, she made up a legend about its reasons as another trick. She complained about the men in the fighting zones and appealed to the supervisor's ego by claiming she had been told he was a better boss. When it came to Perat she followed his orders and even killed her father. She was humble and seductive and gained his trust and attention, which was her feminine trick again. In the very end she used a trick of a dangerous perfume given by her mentors. She used it not to be set up by the inquisitor. "
"<s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE ***    Stalemate In Space     By CHARLES L. HARNESS     Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous     death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison.     Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage     the main battle raged—where a girl swayed     sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears.           Die now—die now—die now     —     Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly.           Die now—die now—die now     —     The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost.     The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else.     She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space.     But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past.     For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched      The Defender     grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe,      The Invader     , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy,      The Defender     was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned.     The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle.       The Defender     , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met      The Invader     with giantfission torpedoes.     And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken      Defender     .     The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer      The Defender's     outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father.     In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave      TheDefender     . Be on it.     No. I shall die here.     His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle.     There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful.     But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality.     She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present.     That time had come.     With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die.     She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific.     With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box.     It was a shattered ruin.  <doc-sep>Once the fact was clear, she composed herself and lay there, breathinghard and thinking. She had no means to construct another key. At best,finding the rare tools and parts would take months, and during theinterval the invaders would be cutting loose from the dead hulk thatclutched their conquering battle globe in a metallic rigor mortis.     She gave herself six weeks to accomplish this stalemate in space.     Within that time she must know whether the prime movers were stillintact, and whether she could safely enter the pile room herself,set the movers in motion, and draw the moderator columns. If it wereunsafe, she must secure the unwitting assistance of her Scythianenemies.     Still prone, she found the first-aid kit and taped her chest expertly.The cold was beginning to make itself felt, so she flicked on thechaudiere she wore as an under-garment to her Scythian woman's uniform.Then she crawled on her elbows and stomach to the tiny door, spun thesealing gear, and was soon outside. Ignoring the pain and pulling onthe side of the imitation rock that contained her cell, she got slowlyto her feet. The air was thin indeed, and frigid. She turned the valveof her portable oxygen bottle almost subconsciously, while exploringthe surrounding blackened forest as far as she could see. Mentally shewas alert for roving alien minds. She had left her weapons inside thecubicle, except for the three things in the little leather bag danglingfrom her waist, for she knew that her greatest weapon in the struggleto come would be her apparent harmlessness.     Four hundred yards behind her she detected the mind of a low-bornScythe, of the Tharn sun group. Very quickly she established it as thatof a tired, brutish corporal, taking a mop-up squad through the blackstumps and forlorn branches of the small forest that for years hadsupplied oxygen to the defenders of this sector.     The corporal could not see her green Scythian uniform clearly, andevidently took her for a Terran woman. In his mind was the question:Should he shoot immediately, or should he capture her? It had been twomonths since he had seen a woman. But then, his orders were to shoot.Yes, he would shoot.     Evelyn turned in profile to the beam-gun and stretched luxuriously,hoping that her grimace of pain could not be detected. Withsatisfaction, she sensed a sudden change of determination in the mindof the Tharn. The gun was lowered, and the man was circling to creep upbehind her. He did not bother to notify his men. He wanted her first.He had seen her uniform, but that deterred him not a whit. Afterwards,he would call up the squad. Finally, they would kill her and move on.Women auxiliaries had no business here, anyway.     Hips dipping, Evelyn sauntered into the shattered copse. The man movedfaster, though still trying to approach quietly. Most of the radions inthe mile-high ceiling had been destroyed, and the light was poor. Hewas not surprised when he lost track of his quarry. He tip-toed rapidlyonward, picking his way through the charred and fallen branches,thinking that she must turn up again soon. He had not gone twenty yardsin this manner when a howl of unbearable fury sounded in his mind, andthe dull light in his brain went out.        She fought for her life under that mile-high ceiling.        Breathing deeply from her mental effort, the woman stepped frombehind a great black tree trunk and hurried to the unconscious man.For I.Q.'s of 100 and less, telepathic cortical paralysis was quiteeffective. With cool efficiency and no trace of distaste she strippedthe odorous uniform from the man, then took his weapon, turned the beampower down very low, and needled a neat slash across his throat. Whilehe bled to death, she slipped deftly into the baggy suit, clasped thebeam gun by the handle, and started up the sooty slope. For a time, atleast, it would be safer to pass as a Tharn soldier than as any kind ofa woman.      II     The inquisitor leaned forward, frowning at the girl before him.     Name?     Evelyn Kane.     The eyes of the inquisitor widened. So you admit to a Terran name.Well, Terran, you are charged with having stolen passage on a supplylorry, and you also seem to be wearing the uniform of an infantrycorporal as well as that of a Scythian woman auxiliary. Incidentally,where is the corporal? Did you kill him?     He was prepared for a last-ditch denial. He would cut it short, havethe guards remove her, and execution would follow immediately. In away, it was unfortunate. The woman was obviously of a high Terranclass. No—he couldn't consider that. His slender means couldn't affordanother woman in his quarters, and besides, he wouldn't feel safe withthis cool murderess.     Do you not understand the master tongue? Why did you kill thecorporal? He leaned impatiently over his desk.     The woman stared frankly back at him with her clear blue eyes. Theguards on either side of her dug their nails into her arms, as wastheir custom with recalcitrant prisoners, but she took no notice.     She had analyzed the minds of the three men. She could handle theinquisitor alone or the two guards alone, but not all three.     If you aren't afraid of me, perhaps you'd be so kind as to send theguards out for a few minutes, she said, placing a hand on her hip. Ihave interesting information.     So that was it. Buy her freedom by betraying fugitive Terrans. Well, hecould take the information and then kill her. He nodded curtly to theguards, and they walked out of the hut, exchanging sly winks with oneanother.     Evelyn Kane crossed her arms across her chest and felt her broken ribgingerly. The inquisitor stared up at her in sadistic admiration. Hewould certainly be on hand for the execution. His anticipation was cutshort with a horrible realization. Under the paralyzing force of a mindgreater than his own, he reached beneath the desk and switched off therecorder.     Who is the Occupational Commandant for this Sector, she askedtersely. This must be done swiftly before the guards returned.     Perat, Viscount of Tharn, replied the man mechanically.     What is the extent of his jurisdiction?     From the center of the Terran globe, outward four hundred milesradius.     Good. Prepare for me the usual visa that a woman clerk needs forpassage to the offices of the Occupational Commandant.     The inquisitor filled in blanks in a stiff sheet of paper and stamped aseal at its bottom.     You will add in the portion reserved for 'comments', the following:'Capable clerk. Others will follow as they are found available.'     The man's pen scratched away obediently.     Evelyn Kane smiled gently at the impotent, inwardly raging inquisitor.She took the paper, folded it, and placed it in a pocket in her blouse.Call the guards, she ordered.     He pressed the button on his desk, and the guards re-entered.     This person is no longer a prisoner, said the inquisitor woodenly.She is to take the next transport to the Occupational Commandant ofZone One.     When the transport had left, neither inquisitor nor guards had anymemory of the woman. However, in the due course of events, therecording was gathered up with many others like it, boxed carefully,and sent to the Office of the Occupational Commandant, Zone One, forauditing.  <doc-sep>Evelyn was extremely careful with her mental probe as she descendedfrom the transport. The Occupational Commandant would undoubtedlybe high-born and telepathic. He must not have occasion to suspect asimilar ability in a mere clerk.     Fighting had passed this way, too, and recently. Many of the buildingswere still smoking, and many of the radions high above were eithershot out or obscured by slowly drifting dust clouds. The acrid odor ofradiation-remover was everywhere.     She caught the sound of spasmodic small-arm fire.     What is that? she asked the transport attendant.     The Commandant is shooting prisoners, he replied laconically.     Oh.     Where did you want to go?     To the personnel office.     That way. He pointed to the largest building of the group—twostories high, reasonably intact.     She walked off down the gravel path, which was stained here and therewith dark sticky red. She gave her visa to the guard at the door andwas admitted to an improvised waiting room, where another guard eyedher stonily. The firing was much nearer. She recognized the obscenecoughs of a Faeg pistol and began to feel sick.     A woman in the green uniform of the Scythe auxiliary came in, whisperedsomething to the guard, and then told Evelyn to follow her.     In the anteroom a grey cat looked her over curiously, and Evelynfrowned. She might have to get rid of the cat if she stayed here. Undercertain circumstances the animal could prove her deadliest enemy.     The next room held a foppish little man, evidently a supervisor of somesort, who was studying her visa.     I'm very happy to have you here, S'ria—ah——he looked at the visasuspiciously—S'ria Lyn. Do sit down. But, as I was just remarking toS'ria Gerek, here—he nodded to the other woman, who smiled back—Iwish the field officers would make up their august minds as to whetherthey want you or don't want you. Just why did they transfer you toH.Q.?     She thought quickly. This pompous little ass would have to be givensome answer that would keep him from checking with the inquisitor. Itwould have to be something personal. She looked at the false black inhis eyebrows and sideburns, and the artificial way in which he hadcombed hair over his bald spot. She crossed her knees slowly, ignoringthe narrowing eyes of S'ria Gerek, and smoothed the back of her braidedyellow hair. He was studying her covertly.     The men in the fighting zones are uncouth, S'ria Gorph, she saidsimply. I was told that      you     , that is, I mean—     Yes? he was the soul of graciousness. S'ria Gerek began to dictateloudly into her mechanical transcriber.     Evelyn cleared her throat, averted her eyes, and with some effort,managed a delicate flush. I meant to say, I thought I would be happierworking for—working here. So I asked for a transfer.     S'ria Gorph beamed. Splendid. But the occupation isn't over, yet,you know. There'll be hard work here for several weeks yet, before wecut loose from the enemy globe. But you do your work well—winkingartfully—and I'll see that—     He stopped, and his face took on a hunted look of mingled fear andanxiety. He appeared to listen.     Evelyn tensed her mind to receive and deceive a mental probe. She wascertain now that the Zone Commandant was high-born and telepathic. Thechances were only fifty-fifty that she could delude him for any lengthof time if he became interested in her. He must be avoided if at allpossible. It should not be too difficult. He undoubtedly had a dozenpersonal secretaries and/or concubines and would take small interest inthe lowly employees that amused Gorph.     Gorph looked at her uncertainly. Perat, Viscount of the Tharn Suns,sends you his compliments and wishes to see you on the balcony. Hepointed to a hallway. All the way through there, across to the otherwing.     As she left, she heard all sound in the room stop. The transcribing andcalculating machines trailed off into a watchful silence, and she couldfeel the eyes of the men and women on her back. She noticed then thatthe Faeg had ceased firing.  <doc-sep></s>","If the device exploded and all went according to the plan, both The Defender and The Invader would be destroyed immediately with all the people on board including Evelyn. Due to a technical break, Evelyn stayed alive and had to think of other ways to destroy the ships. The whole rest of the story is a sequence of events and encounters, accompanied by tricks and cunning, leading to this final aim. She is breaking free, gets trust of her enemies, and even kills her father for this great purpose of destroying their enemies. Every her action is carefully controlled in order to get to Perat and spy on the thoughts of his officers. As she doesn't have anyone left and is surrounded by enemies, she need the purpose to live, which is given by this broken exploder and her following inability to fulfill her task. "
"<s>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STALEMATE IN SPACE ***    Stalemate In Space     By CHARLES L. HARNESS     Two mighty metal globes clung in a murderous     death-struggle, lashing out with flames of poison.     Yet deep in their twisted, radioactive wreckage     the main battle raged—where a girl swayed     sensuously before her conqueror's mocking eyes.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      At first there was only the voice, a monotonous murmur in her ears.           Die now—die now—die now     —     Evelyn Kane awoke, breathing slowly and painfully. The top of thecubicle was bulging inward on her chest, and it seemed likely that arib or two was broken. How long ago? Years? Minutes? She had no way ofknowing. Her slender right hand found the oxygen valve and turned it.For a long while she lay, hurting and breathing helplessly.           Die now—die now—die now     —     The votron had awakened her with its heart-breaking code message, andit was her duty to carry out its command. Nine years after the greatbattle globes had crunched together the mentors had sealed her in thistiny cell, dormant, unwaking, to be livened only when it was certainher countrymen had either definitely won—or lost.     The votron's telepathic dirge chronicled the latter fact. She hadexpected nothing else.     She had only to find the relay beside her cot, press the key that wouldset in motion gigantic prime movers in the heart of the great globe,and the conquerors would join the conquered in the wide and namelessgrave of space.     But life, now doled out by the second, was too delicious to abandonimmediately. Her mind, like that of a drowning person, raced hungrilyover the memories of her past.     For twenty years, in company with her great father, she had watched      The Defender     grow from a vast metal skeleton into a planet-sizedbattle globe. But it had not grown fast enough, for when the Scythianglobe,      The Invader     , sprang out of black space to enslave the buddingTerran Confederacy,      The Defender     was unfinished, half-equipped, andundermanned.     The Terrans could only fight for time and hope for a miracle.       The Defender     , commanded by her father, Gordon, Lord Kane, hurleditself from its orbit around Procyon and met      The Invader     with giantfission torpedoes.     And then, in an intergalactic proton storm beyond the Lesser MagellanicCloud, the globes lost their bearings and collided. Hordes of brute-menpoured through the crushed outer armor of the stricken      Defender     .     The prone woman stirred uneasily. Here the images became unrealand terrible, with the recurrent vision of death. It had taken theScythians nine years to conquer      The Defender's     outer shell. Then hadcome that final interview with her father.     In half an hour our last space port will be captured, he hadtelepathed curtly. Only one more messenger ship can leave      TheDefender     . Be on it.     No. I shall die here.     His fine tired eyes had studied her face in enigmatic appraisal. Thendie usefully. The mentors are trying to develop a force that willdestroy both globes in the moment of our inevitable defeat. If they aresuccessful, you will have the task of pressing the final button of thebattle.     There's an off-chance you may survive, countered a mentor. We'realso working on a means for your escape—not only because you areGordon's daughter, but because this great proton storm will preventradio contact with Terra for years, and we want someone to escape withour secret if and when our experiments prove successful.     But you must expect to die, her father had warned with gentlefinality.     She clenched her fingernails vehemently into her palms and wrenchedherself back to the present.     That time had come.     With some effort she worked herself out of the crumpled bed and lay onthe floor of her little cubicle, panting and holding her chest withboth hands. The metal floor was very cold. Evidently the enemy torpedofissionables had finally broken through to the center portions of theship, letting in the icy breath of space. Small matter. Not by freezingwould she die.     She reached out her hand, felt for the all-important key, and gasped indismay. The mahogany box containing the key had burst its metal bondsand was lying on its side. The explosion that had crushed her cubiclehad been terrific.     With a gurgle of horror she snapped on her wrist luminar and examinedthe interior of the box.     It was a shattered ruin.  <doc-sep>Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool itself, I struck,stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid blackness and grappled theobscene gelatinous immensity of the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzyof xenophobia—a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well.     I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on itself, gibbering.Not pausing to rest, I followed up, probed along my channel of contact,tracing patterns, scanning the flaccid Gool mind....     I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores of mud. Therewas a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur bubbled up from some innersource, filling an immense natural basin. The Gool clustered at itsrim, feeding, each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for amore favorable position.       I probed farther, saw the great cables of living nervous tissue thatlinked each eating organ with the brain-mass far underground. I tracedthe passages through which tendrils ran out to immense caverns wheresmaller creatures labored over strange devices. These, my host's memorytold me, were the young of the Gool. Here they built the fleets thatwould transport the spawn to the new worlds the Prime Overlord haddiscovered, worlds where food was free for the taking. Not sulphuralone, but potassium, calcium, iron and all the metals—richesbeyond belief in endless profusion. No longer would the Gool tribecluster—those who remained of a once-great race—at a single feedingtrough. They would spread out across a galaxy—and beyond.     But not if I could help it.     The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a stroke of bad luck.     In the past, they had managed to control a man here and there, amongthe fleets, far from home, but only at a superficial level. Enough,perhaps, to wreck a ship, but not the complete control needed to send aman back to Earth under Gool compulsion, to carry out complex sabotage.     Then they had found me, alone, a sole survivor, free from the clutterof the other mind-fields. It had been their misfortune to pick apsychodynamicist. Instead of gaining a patient slave, they had openedthe fortress door to an unseen spy. Now that I was there, I would seewhat I could steal.     A timeless time passed. I wandered among patterns of white light andwhite sound, plumbed the deepest recesses of hidden Gool thoughts,fared along strange ways examining the shapes and colors of theconcepts of an alien mind.     I paused at last, scanning a multi-ordinal structure of pattern withinpattern; the diagrammed circuits of a strange machine.     I followed through its logic-sequence; and, like a bomb-burst, itsmeaning exploded in my mind.     From the vile nest deep under the dark surface of the Gool world inits lonely trans-Plutonian orbit, I had plucked the ultimate secret oftheir kind.     Matter across space.  <doc-sep>Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past.     He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past.     Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion.     Two hundred thousand years ago, he said.     There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed.     Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate?     As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem.     And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor?     To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to      two hundred thousand years ago     !     The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations?     Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right.     Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home?     We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip.     It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions?     Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition.     Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect.     The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me?     We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability.     Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives?     Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make.     I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person.     They glanced at one another as Halden took it.     You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been.     There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed.     Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading.  <doc-sep></s>","Evelyn, the main character, is an example of a person following and respecting her duty. As a daughter of the commander she was brought up with a role model during the war time. Her father commanded the ship, defending the whole nation, and she witnessed it for years. It taught her to understand the duty and therefore she refused to leave the ship when she had the opportunity and accepted the important task of exploding both ships and herself as well. No matter how scared she was, she was determined to fulfill the duty placed on her by her father and mentors, and for that reason she pressed the button. When it didn't work, she kept feeling the burden of duty on her and started thinking of other means to destroy the enemies to fulfill the task. Following her duty moved her forward through pain and danger, made her find the ways to achieve it. When she shot her father, she did it because she had to, she knew it was the only right way to reach her aim instead of giving up to emotions. "
"<s>   THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine August 1959.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew       less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it!        There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically.     Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin.     Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust      anything     . That's why I'm Captain.     You'll get over feeling like that.     I know. Then I'll become First Officer.     But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia.     I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television.     Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen.     Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives.     You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Captain Gavin and Ordinary Spaceman Quade have an argument about the blank video screen during a space exploration mission. Quade claims it is a transphasia and Captain doubts it. When the dispute gets tense, the two of them go out to find the reason for the blackout. There they smell and taste the beauty. Suddenly, a streak of spice shoots and the captain feels pain. After another short fight the two decide to go back to the spacer. There the captain has a chat with First Officer Nagurski, an ex-captain, about making Gavin's relationship with the crew better. Quade joins, and next steps towards transphasia are discussed with the final decision of the captain to tear apart the ship as it is the only protection. Many disagree again, and Quade goes out somewhere alone without a cable. Gavin blames himself for not seeing Quade's intentions and plans to follow. The crew plans on fighting the noise with music outside and increasing smell and taste by drinking wine. After these preparations, a part of the crew moves out following the cable to search for Quade. Soon they find him lying in the dust with frostbite and heat prostration. Near the ship, lizard-like aliens stand in the crew's way. A short beating occurs, and soon the captain is talking to Quade in the infirmary about the past experience. Turns out the aliens were trying to help and desired to be colonized. Quade acknowledges his mistakes and loses his confidence, for which he is demoted by the captain."
"<s>   THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine August 1959.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew       less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it!        There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically.     Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin.     Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust      anything     . That's why I'm Captain.     You'll get over feeling like that.     I know. Then I'll become First Officer.     But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia.     I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television.     Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen.     Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives.     You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence.  <doc-sep>Looks okay to me, I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it'ssolid.     The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets wasunimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-whitesand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pinksunlight.     I don't understand it, Quade admitted. Transphasia hits you a foulas soon as you let it into the airlock.     Apparently, Quade,      this     thing is going to creep up on us.     Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too.     The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply.     The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned myhead around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it.     But what else can you do with a wail but      hear     it?     Quade nodded. I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let'strace it.     I don't like this, I admitted. It's not at all what I expected fromwhat you said about transphasia. It must be something else.     It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. Youmay begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeingtastes, touching odors—or any other combination. Don't let it botheryou.     Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks oflanolin jumping over a loud fence.     Quade grinned behind his faceplate. Good idea.     Then you can have it. I'm going to try keeping my eyes open andstaying alive.     There was no reply.     His expression was tart and greasy despite all his light talk, andI knew mine was the same. I tested the security rope between ourpressure suits. It was a taut and virile bass.     We scaled a staccato of rocks, our suits grinding pepper against ourhides.     The musk summit rose before us, a minor-key horizon with a shiftingtreble for as far as I could smell. It was primitive beauty that madeyou feel shocking pink inside. The most beautiful vista I had evertasted, it couldn't be dulled even by the sensation of beef broth undermy skin.     Is this transphasia? I asked in awe.     It always has been before, Quade remarked. Ready to swallow yourwords about this being something an old hand wouldn't recognize,Captain?     I'm swallowing no words until I find out precisely how they tastehere.     Not a bad taste. They're pretty. Or haven't you noticed?     Quade, you're right! About the colors anyway. This reminds me of anilliscope recording from a cybernetic translator.     It should. I don't suppose we could understand each other if it wasn'tfor our morphistudy courses in reading cross-sense translations ofCentauri blushtalk and the like.     It became difficult to understand him, difficult to try talking in theface of such splendor. You never really appreciate colors until yousmell them for the first time.  <doc-sep>I drew myself up to my full height—and noticed in irritation it wasstill an inch less than Quade's. I don't understand you men. Look atyourself, Quade. You've been busted to Ordinary Spaceman for just thatkind of thinking, for relying on tradition, on things that have workedbefore. Not only your thinking is slipshod, you've grown careless abouteverything else, even your own life.     Just a minute, Captain. I've never been 'busted.' In the ExplorationService, we regard Ordinary Spaceman as our highest rank. With myhazard pay, I get more hard cash than      you     do, and I'm closer toretirement.     That's a shallow excuse for complacency.     Complacency! I've seen ten thousand wonders in twenty years of space,with a million variations. But the patterns repeat themselves. We learnto know what to expect, so maybe we can't maintain the reactionarycaution the service likes in officers.     I resent the word 'reactionary,' Spaceman! In civilian life, I wasa lapidary and I learned the value of deliberation. But I never gottoo cataleptic to tap a million-dollar gem, which is more than mycontemporaries can say, many of 'em.     Captain Gavin, Quade said patiently, you must realize that anoutsider like you, among a crew of skilled spacemen, can never be morethan a figurehead.     Was this the way I was to be treated? Why, this man had deliberatelyinsulted me, his captain. I controlled myself, remembering thefamiliarity that had always existed between members of a crew workingunder close conditions, from the time of the ancient submarines and thefirst orbital ships.     Quade, I said, there's only one way for us to find out which of usis right about the cause of our scanning blackout.     We go out and find the reason.     Exactly. We go. You and me. I hope you can stand my company.     I'm not sure I can, he answered reluctantly. My hazard pay doesn'tcover exploring with rookies. With all due respect, Captain.     I clapped him on the shoulder. But, man, you have just been tellingme all we had to worry about was common transphasia. A man with yourexperience could protect himself and cover even a rookie, under suchfamiliar conditions—right?     Yes, sir, I suppose I could, Quade said, bitterly aware he had lostout somewhere and hoping that it wasn't the start of a trend.  <doc-sep></s>","Quade holds the captain in low regard, he believes to be much more experienced and knowledgeable and disagrees with Gavin's decisions. Therefore, Quade doesn't want to obey the captain and constantly confronts him. Gavin, in turn, wants to be obeyed and considers his position enough reason to ask for that. The captain is new to the crew and he doesn't try to get closer to it, while all the other members have known each other for a while. Moreover, the captain constantly takes risks and suggests new methods, in which the crew and Quade are not sure. Gavin also feels jealous as the crew respects Quade much more than the captain himself. Quade acts on his own according to what he considers right, and Gavin has to fight him for leadership and make him obey, not to lose charge. Their relationship changes when Gavin starts blaming himself for Quade's leave and possible death, considering his own jealousy the reason of neglect. When he saves Quade, the least also changes his mind because he recognizes the foolishness of his actions and the two come to an agreement. "
"<s>   THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine August 1959.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew       less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it!        There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically.     Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin.     Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust      anything     . That's why I'm Captain.     You'll get over feeling like that.     I know. Then I'll become First Officer.     But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia.     I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television.     Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen.     Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives.     You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence.  <doc-sep>Nagurski brought out a pipe. He would have a pipe, I decided.     No, not always. I was like you at first. Fresh from the cosmic energytest lab, suspicious of everything, trying to tell the old hands whatto do. But I learned that they are pretty smart boys; they know whatthey are doing. You can rely on them absolutely.     I leaned forward, elbows on knees. Let me tell      you     a thing,Nagurski. Your trust of these damn-fool spacemen is why you are nolonger a captain. You can't trust anything out here in space, much lesshuman nature. Even I know that much!     He was pained. If you don't trust the men, they won't trust you, Gav.     They don't have to trust me. All they have to do is      obey     me or, byJupiter, get frozen stiff and thawed out just in time for court-marshalback home. Listen, I continued earnestly, these men aren't going tothink of me—of      us     , the officers, as their leaders. As far as thecrew is concerned, Ordinary Spaceman Quade is the best man on thisship.     He      is     a good man, Nagurski said. You mustn't be jealous of hisstatus.     The dog growled. He must have sensed what I almost did to Nagurski.     Never mind that for now, I said wearily. What was your idea forgetting our exploration parties through this transphasia?     There's only one idea for that, said Quade, ducking his long headand stepping through the connecting hatch. With the Captain'spermission....     Go ahead, Quade, tell him, Nagurski invited.     There's only one way to wade through transphasia with anyreliability, Quade told me. You keep some kind of physical contactwith the spaceship. Parties are strung out on guide line, like we were,but the cable has to be run back and made fast to the hull.     How far can we run it back?     Quade shrugged. Miles.     How many?     We have three miles of cable. As long as you can feel, taste, see,smell or hear that rope anchoring you to home, you aren't lost.     Three miles isn't good enough. We don't have enough fuel to changesites that often. You can't use the drive in a gravitational field, youknow.     What else can we do, Captain? Nagurski asked puzzledly.     You've said that the spaceship is our only protection fromtransphasia. Is that it?     Quade gave a curt nod.     Then, I told them, we will have to start tearing apart this ship.  <doc-sep>There they are! Nagurski called. Quade's footsteps again, justbeyond that rocky ridge.     The landscape was rich chocolate ice cream smothered with chocolatesyrup, caramel, peanuts and maple syrup, eaten while you smoked an old,mellow Havana. The footsteps were faint traces of whipped cream acrossthe dark, rich taste of the planet.     I splashed some wine from my drinking tube against the roof of my mouthto sharpen my taste. It brought out the footsteps sharper. It also madethe landscape more of a teen-ager's caloric nightmare.     The four of us pulled ourselves closer together by reeling in moreof our safety line. Farley and Hoffman, Nagurski and myself, we werecabled together. It gave us a larger hunk of reality to hold onto. Evenso, things wavered for me during a wisp of time.     We stumbled over the ridge, feeling out the territory. It was a stickyjob crawling over a melting, chunk-style Hershey bar. I was thankfulfor the invigorating Sousa march blasting inside my helmet. Before thetape had cut in, kicked on by the decibel gauge, I had heard or feltsomething dark and ominous in the outside air.     Yes, this is definitely the trail of Quail, Nagurski said soberly.This is serious business. I must ask whoever has been giggling onthis channel to shut up. Pardon me, Captain.      You     weren't giggling,sir?     I have never giggled in my life, Nagurski.     Yes, sir. That's what we all thought.     A moment later, Nagurski added, Anyway, I just noticed it was myshelf—my, that is, self.     The basso profundo performing      Figaro     on my headset climbed to agirlish shriek. A sliver of ice. This was the call Quade and I hadfirst heard as we were about to troop over a cliff. I dug in my heels.     Take a good look around, boys, I said. What do you see?     Quail, Nagurski replied. That's what I see.     You, I said carefully, have been in space a      long     time. Look again.     I see our old buddy, Quail.     I took another slosh of burgundy and peered up ahead. It      was     Quade. Aman in a spacesuit, faceplate in the dust, two hundred yards ahead.       Grudgingly I stepped forward, out of the shadow of the ridge.A hysterically screaming wind rocked me on my toes. We pushedon sluggishly to Quade's side, moving to the tempo of      Pomp andCircumstance     .     Farley lugged Quade over on his back and read his gauges.     The Quartermaster rose with grim deliberation, and hiccuped. Betterget him back to the spaceship fast. I've seen this kind of thingbefore with transphasia. His body cooled down because of the screamingwind—psychosomatic reaction—and his heating circuits compensated forthe cool flesh. The poor devil's got frostbite and heat prostration.  <doc-sep></s>","Nagurski used to be a captain and Gavin is now, though their methods and thoughts about this position differ. Nagurski believes the crew must elect their leader, and if a captain guides the crew, this will happen. Gavin thinks such attitude will lead to anarchy. Moreover, Nagurski learned to trust his men in order to make them trust him. Gavin does not trust anyone in space and doesn't want his crew to trust him as well, simply obey. Gavin tries to adapt to the new conditions, acting creatively and according to situation, while Nagurski sticks to old patterns and rules. Nagurski is afraid to risk, he opposes taking apart the ship, being afraid to lose too many parts. Nagurski is neither afraid for Quade going out alone as he believes in the least, while the captain heads to save the man. "
"<s>   THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine August 1959.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew       less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it!        There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically.     Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin.     Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust      anything     . That's why I'm Captain.     You'll get over feeling like that.     I know. Then I'll become First Officer.     But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia.     I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television.     Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen.     Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives.     You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence.  <doc-sep>Looks okay to me, I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it'ssolid.     The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets wasunimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-whitesand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pinksunlight.     I don't understand it, Quade admitted. Transphasia hits you a foulas soon as you let it into the airlock.     Apparently, Quade,      this     thing is going to creep up on us.     Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too.     The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply.     The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned myhead around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it.     But what else can you do with a wail but      hear     it?     Quade nodded. I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let'strace it.     I don't like this, I admitted. It's not at all what I expected fromwhat you said about transphasia. It must be something else.     It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. Youmay begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeingtastes, touching odors—or any other combination. Don't let it botheryou.     Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks oflanolin jumping over a loud fence.     Quade grinned behind his faceplate. Good idea.     Then you can have it. I'm going to try keeping my eyes open andstaying alive.     There was no reply.     His expression was tart and greasy despite all his light talk, andI knew mine was the same. I tested the security rope between ourpressure suits. It was a taut and virile bass.     We scaled a staccato of rocks, our suits grinding pepper against ourhides.     The musk summit rose before us, a minor-key horizon with a shiftingtreble for as far as I could smell. It was primitive beauty that madeyou feel shocking pink inside. The most beautiful vista I had evertasted, it couldn't be dulled even by the sensation of beef broth undermy skin.     Is this transphasia? I asked in awe.     It always has been before, Quade remarked. Ready to swallow yourwords about this being something an old hand wouldn't recognize,Captain?     I'm swallowing no words until I find out precisely how they tastehere.     Not a bad taste. They're pretty. Or haven't you noticed?     Quade, you're right! About the colors anyway. This reminds me of anilliscope recording from a cybernetic translator.     It should. I don't suppose we could understand each other if it wasn'tfor our morphistudy courses in reading cross-sense translations ofCentauri blushtalk and the like.     It became difficult to understand him, difficult to try talking in theface of such splendor. You never really appreciate colors until yousmell them for the first time.  <doc-sep>Feeling better? I asked Quade in the infirmary.     He punched up his pillow and settled back. I guess so. But when Ithink of all the ways I nearly got myself killed out there.... How farhave you got in the tractors?     I'm having the tractors torn down and the parts put back into thespaceship where they belong. We      shouldn't     risk losing them andgetting stuck here.     Are you settling for a primary exploration?     No. I think I had the right idea on your rescue party. You have tomeet and fight a planet on its own terms. Fighting confused sounds andtastes with music and wine was crude, but it was on the right track.Out there, we understood language because we were familiar with alienlanguages changed to other sense mediums by cybernetic translators.Using the translator, we can learn to recognize all confused data aseasily. I'm starting indoctrination courses.     I doubt that that is necessary, sir, Quade said. Experiencedspacemen are experienced with transphasia. You don't have to worry. Inthe future, I'll be able to resist sensations that tell me I'm freezingto death—if my gauges tell me it's a lie.     I examined his bandisprayed hide. I think my way of gaining experienceis less painful and more efficient.     Quade squirmed. Yes, sir. One thing, sir—I don't understand how yougot me away from those aliens.     The aliens were trying to help. They knew something was wrong and theywere prodding and probing. When the first tractor pulled up and the mengot out, they seemed to realize our own people could help us easierthan they could.     I am not quite convinced that those babies just meant to help us allthe time.     But they did! First, that call of theirs—it wasn't to lead us intodanger, but to warn us of the cliff, the freezing wind. They saw wewere trying to find out things about their world, so they even offeredus one of their own kind to study. Unfortunately, he was too much forus. They didn't give us their top man, of course, only the villageidiot. It's just as well. We aren't allowed to dissect creatures thatfar up the intelligence scale.     But why should they want to help us? Quade demanded suspiciously.     I think it's like Nagurski's dog. The dog came to him when it wantedsomebody to own it, protect it, feed it, love it. These aliens      want     Earthmen to colonize the planet. We came here, you see, same as the dogcame to Nagurski.     Well, I've learned one thing from all of this, Quade said. I've beena blind, arrogant, cocksure fool, following courses that were good on      some     worlds,      most     worlds, but not good on      all     worlds. I'm nevergoing to be that foolhardy again.     But you're losing      confidence     , Quade! You aren't sure of yourself anymore. Isn't confidence a spaceman's most valuable asset?     The hell it is, Quade said grimly. It's his deadliest liability.     In that case, I must inform you that I am demoting you to ActingExecutive Officer.     Huh? Quade gawked. But dammit, Captain, you can't do that to me!I'll lose hazard pay and be that much further from retirement!     That's tough, I sympathized, but in every service a chap gets brokenin rank now and then.     Maybe it's worth it, Quade said heavily. Now maybe I've learned howto stay alive out here. I just hope I don't forget.     I thought about that. I was nearly through with my first mission andI could speak with experience, even if it was the least amount ofexperience aboard.     Quade, I said, space isn't as dangerous as all that. I clapped himon the shoulder fraternally. You worry too much!   <doc-sep></s>","In the very beginning, Quade confronts the new captain in a challenging and harsh manner. Quade believes he knows everything better than the captain and neglects the least as he is a rookie. Quade goes out one on one with the captain to prove he was right about transphasia. When the two face it, Quade is trying to drag the captain towards transphasia, but has to follow the orders and return to the ship. He suggests to keep contact with the ship and run back the cable. His idea is declined and he recklessly goes out alone in a suit without the cable. There his senses are deceived and he is found lying in the dust and brought to the ship. Facing the aliens there, Quade approaches them and is beaten. He finds himself in an infirmary then and acknowledges his lack of judgement to the captain. He is demoted after and accepts this punishment. "
"<s>   THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine August 1959.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew       less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it!        There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically.     Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin.     Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust      anything     . That's why I'm Captain.     You'll get over feeling like that.     I know. Then I'll become First Officer.     But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia.     I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television.     Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen.     Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives.     You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged.     That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now.     Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.     It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship.           H-mph!      the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality.     Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge.     Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price.     Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone.     Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly.     Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host.     Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room.     He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company.     Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.     Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents?     Quite, said Harvey. We shall order.     For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian      viotars     , using his other twohands for waiting on the table.     We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire.     Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right.     But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents.     The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.     It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents.     As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror.     What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure—      three hundred and twenty-eight buckos     !  <doc-sep></s>","Every conflict and dangerous mistake throughout the story was caused by the lack of unity among the characters. The confrontation between Gavin and Quade caused the two to go alone towards transphasia and put themselves in danger. Gavin's lack of desire to work on mutual trust with the crew caused their condemnation of his actions and disobedience during such ab dangerous mission. The mutual offenses and tense arguments between the captain and the crew turned the least to Quade's side. All of this led to Quade going out alone and approaching death, for what Gavin and the crew would blame the captain himself. The arguments between the captain and different members of the crew take a lot of time and the job is done unwillingly, making it not as productive as it could be. The final peace and cohesion, on the contrary, lead to saving Quade, dealing with the aliens and coming to an understanding. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey!     He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare.     I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift.     As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference.     During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself.     He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room.     Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether.     Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks.     Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him—     He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't.     Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid—     He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean      ex     -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph.     Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero,      what washe     ?  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Peter Granthan, a psychodynamicist, wakes up severely injured on a lifeboat after his spaceship Belshazzar has been mysteriously destroyed. He has no recollection of what has happened to him. He thinks to himself he must have been the first ever survivor to come into contact with a Gool, a fierce alien race who infiltrate and control people's minds. He makes a call to TSA headquarters back on Earth, who control the mission from the ground. On the other end is Ausar Kayle. Kayle asks Granthan what happened to the rest of the crew. Granthan relays how he got out. Kayle thinks that Granthan may be under the control of the Gool, and he may be the one who inadvertently caused the destruction of the ship. Kayle orders Granthan to stay in Orbit around Earth. Granthan knows that if he stays in orbit, there is sure to be a fleet of missiles on their way towards him. He decides to enter his own mind, in search of a Gool spy that may be tampering with it. He dives deep into his sub conscious. He looks into his memory, where he finds a Gool. He sees how it controlled him as he unknowingly made his way onto the lifeboat, escaping the burning ship. He follows the Gool, studying how it infiltrates minds and controls them as it goes. He reaches out to the Gool, infiltrating it's mind. Granthan takes control of the Gool's mind, inside of his own. He see's the Gool's home world. In it he finds the secret to Matter across space. He calls Kayle, explaining the information he has just found. Kayle doesn't believe Granthan, still thinking he is being controlled by the Gool. Granthan plans his course of re-entry. Now knowing the secret to the Gool's mind control, he uses the technique to convince various stations on Earth to allow him to land, and not raise suspicion. He eventually lands in the ocean, some distance outside Key West. Kayle realises Granthan has landed, and he readies the missiles. Granthan finds the man's mind who controls the missiles, enters it, and forces him to hit the self destruct button. He infiltrates a fisherman's mind, convincing him to take him to shore, while bombs are being dropped around them. He then gets a driver to take him to a rail yard.  When he arrives at a train yard, he lays down to rest in the empty box car where he just fought a guard. While the train is stopped, he convinces a man to buy him food and water. The train is headed for New Orleans, and his plan is to raid the Delta National Labs. He arrives before dawn, and crawls out of the car.He gets a man to drive him into town, where he buys new clothes and hails a cab, who takes him to the Laboratories. They arrive, Granthan gets out of the car. The taxi driver drives away. "
"<s>I came out of it clear-headed but weak. My right leg was numb, butreasonably comfortable, clamped tight in a walking brace. I put upa hand and felt a shaved skull, with sutures. It must have been afracture. The left arm—well, it was still there, wrapped to theshoulder and held out stiffly by a power truss that would keep the scartissue from pulling up and crippling me. The steady pressure as thetruss contracted wasn't anything to do a sense-tape on for replaying atleisure moments, but at least the cabinet hadn't amputated. I wasn'tcomplaining.     As far as I knew, I was the first recorded survivor of contact with theGool—if I survived.     I was still a long way from home, and I hadn't yet checked on thecondition of the lifeboat. I glanced toward the entry port. It wasdogged shut. I could see black marks where my burned hand had been atwork.     I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In my condition—witha broken leg and third-degree burns, plus a fractured skull—Ishouldn't have been able to fall out of bed, much less make the tripfrom      Belshazzar's     CCC to the boat; and how had I managed to dog thatport shut? In an emergency a man was capable of great exertions. Butrunning on a broken femur, handling heavy levers with charred fingersand thinking with a cracked head were overdoing it. Still, I washere—and it was time to get a call through to TSA headquarters.     I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-letters Col. AusarKayle of Aerospace Intelligence had assigned to me a few weeks before.It was almost five minutes before the acknowledge came through fromthe Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes before Kayle's faceswam into view. Even through the blur of the screen I could see thehaggard look.     Granthan! he burst out. Where are the others? What happened outthere? I turned him down to a mutter.     Hold on, I said. I'll tell you. Recorders going? I didn't wait foran answer—not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on:           Belshazzar     was sabotaged. So was      Gilgamesh     —I think. I got out. Ilost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell theMed people the drinks are on me.     I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On thescreen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostileas a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I wouldget his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with a start.Kayle was talking.     —your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role inthe disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived?     How the hell do I know? I yelled—or croaked. But Kayle's voice wasdroning on:     ... you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool mayhave some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make itpossible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You'vetold me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—and came to onthe lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there.     This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike withoutwarning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate thepossibility of—what's that term you use?—hyper-cortical invasion. Youknow better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed topass the patrol line.     I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't acceptthe risk.     What do I do now? I stormed. Go into orbit and eat pills and hopeyou think of something? I need a doctor!     Presently Kayle replied. Yes, he said. You'll have to enter aparking orbit. Perhaps there will be developments soon which will makeit possible to ... ah ... restudy the situation. He didn't meet myeye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish ofknowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him; he was doingwhat he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along andpretend—right up until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'dbeen condemned to death.      II     I tried to gather my wits and think my way through the situation. Iwas alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat that would be the focus of aconverging flight of missiles as soon as I approached within batteryrange of Earth. I had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survivemy next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the chance that Iwas acting under Gool orders.     I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan,psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeksearlier. The thoughts I was having weren't brilliant, but they weremine, all mine....     But how could I be sure of that?     Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were asskillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications oftheir tampering—not at a conscious level.     But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reactinglike any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But Iwasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of themind—and I had been prepared for just such an attack.     Now was the time to make use of that training. It had given me oneresource. I could unlock the memories of my subconscious—and see againwhat had happened.     I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts, and concentrated onthe trigger word that would key an auto-hypnotic sequence....     Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous emptiness of afirst-level trance. I keyed a second word, slipped below the mistysurface into a dreamworld of vague phantasmagoric figures milling intheir limbo of sub-conceptualization. I penetrated deeper, brokethrough into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where images ofmirror-bright immediacy clamored for attention. And deeper....  <doc-sep>You've got to listen to me, Kayle, I shouted. I know you think I'ma Gool robot. But what I have is too big to let you blow it up withouta fight. Matter transmission! You know what that can mean to us. Theconcept is too complex to try to describe in words. You'll have to takemy word for it. I can build it, though, using standard components, plusan infinite-area antenna and a moebius-wound coil—and a few otherthings....     I harangued Kayle for a while, and then sweated out his answer. I wasgetting close now. If he couldn't see the beauty of my proposal, myscreens would start to register the radiation of warheads any time now.     Kayle came back—and his answer boiled down to no.     I tried to reason with him. I reminded him how I had readied myselffor the trip with sessions on the encephaloscope, setting up thecross-networks of conditioned defensive responses, the shunt circuitsto the decoy pseudo-personality, leaving my volitional ego free. Italked about subliminal hypnotics and the resilience quotient of theego-complex.     I might have saved my breath.     I don't understand that psychodynamics jargon, Granthan, he snapped.It smacks of mysticism. But I understand what the Gool have done toyou well enough. I'm sorry.     I leaned back and chewed the inside of my lip and thought unkindthoughts about Colonel Ausar Kayle. Then I settled down to solve theproblem at hand.     I keyed the chart file, flashed pages from the standard index on thereference screen, checking radar coverages, beacon ranges, monitorstations, controller fields. It looked as though a radar-negative boatthe size of mine might possibly get through the defensive net with adaring pilot, and as a condemned spy, I could afford to be daring.     And I had a few ideas.      III     The shrilling of the proximity alarm blasted through the silence. For awild moment I thought Kayle had beaten me to the punch; then I realizedit was the routine DEW line patrol contact.     Z four-oh-two, I am reading your IFF. Decelerate at 1.8 geepreparatory to picking up approach orbit....     The screen went on droning out instructions. I fed them into theautopilot, at the same time running over my approach plan. The scoutwas moving in closer. I licked dry lips. It was time to try.     I closed my eyes, reached out—as the Gool mind had reached out tome—and felt the touch of a Signals Officer's mind, forty thousandmiles distant, aboard the patrol vessel. There was a brief flurry ofstruggle; then I dictated my instructions. The Signals Officer punchedkeys, spoke into his microphone:     As you were, Z four-oh-two. Continue on present course. At Oh-nineteenseconds, pick up planetary for re-entry and let-down.     I blanked out the man's recollection of what had happened, caught hisbelated puzzlement as I broke contact. But I was clear of the DEW linenow, rapidly approaching atmosphere.     Z four-oh-two, the speaker crackled. This is planetary control. I ampicking you up on channel forty-three, for re-entry and let-down.     There was a long pause. Then:     Z four-oh-two, countermand DEW Line clearance! Repeat, clearancecountermanded! Emergency course change to standard hyperbolic codeninety-eight. Do not attempt re-entry. Repeat: do not attempt re-entry!     It hadn't taken Kayle long to see that I'd gotten past the outer lineof defense. A few more minutes' grace would have helped. I'd play itdumb, and hope for a little luck.     Planetary, Z four-oh-two here. Say, I'm afraid I missed part of that,fellows. I'm a little banged up—I guess I switched frequencies on you.What was that after 'pick up channel forty-three'...?     Four-oh-two, sheer off there! You're not cleared for re-entry!     Hey, you birds are mixed up, I protested. I'm cleared all the way. Ichecked in with DEW—     It was time to disappear. I blanked off all transmission, hit thecontrols, following my evasive pattern. And again I reached out—     A radar man at a site in the Pacific, fifteen thousand miles away, rosefrom his chair, crossed the darkened room and threw a switch. The radarscreens blanked off....     For an hour I rode the long orbit down, fending off attack afterattack. Then I was clear, skimming the surface of the ocean a few milessoutheast of Key West. The boat hit hard. I felt the floor rise up,over, buffeting me against the restraining harness.     I hauled at the release lever, felt a long moment of giddydisorientation as the escape capsule separated from the sinkinglifeboat deep under the surface. Then my escape capsule was bobbing onthe water.     I would have to risk calling Kayle now—but by voluntarily giving myposition away, I should convince him I was still on our side—and I wasbadly in need of a pick-up. I flipped the sending key.     This is Z four-oh-two, I said. I have an urgent report for ColonelKayle of Aerospace Intelligence.     Kayle's face appeared. Don't fight it, Granthan, he croaked. Youpenetrated the planetary defenses—God knows how. I—     Later, I snapped. How about calling off your dogs now? And sendsomebody out here to pick me up, before I add sea-sickness to my othercomplaints.     We have you pinpointed, Kayle cut in. It's no use fighting it,Granthan.  <doc-sep>I felt cold sweat pop out on my forehead. You've got to listen,Kayle, I shouted. I suppose you've got missiles on the way already.Call them back! I have information that can win the war—     I'm sorry, Granthan, Kayle said. It's too late—even if I couldtake the chance you were right.     A different face appeared on the screen.     Mr. Granthan, I am General Titus. On behalf of your country, andin the name of the President—who has been apprised of this tragicsituation—it is my privilege to inform you that you will be awardedthe Congressional Medal of Honor—posthumously—for your heroic effort.Although you failed, and have in fact been forced, against your will,to carry out the schemes of the inhuman enemy, this in no way detractsfrom your gallant attempt. Mr. Granthan, I salute you.     The general's arm went up in a rigid gesture.     Stow that, you pompous idiot! I barked. I'm no spy!     Kayle was back, blanking out the startled face of the general.     Goodbye, Granthan. Try to understand....     I flipped the switch, sat gripping the couch, my stomach rising witheach heave of the floating escape capsule. I had perhaps five minutes.The missiles would be from Canaveral.     I closed my eyes, forced myself to relax, reached out....     I sensed the distant shore, the hot buzz of human minds at work in thecities. I followed the coastline, found the Missile Base, flickedthrough the cluster of minds.     —      missile on course; do right, baby. That's it, right in the slot.          I fingered my way through the man's mind and found the control centers.He turned stiffly from the plotting board, tottered to a panel to slamhis hand against the destruct button.     Men fell on him, dragged him back. —      fool, why did you blow it?          I dropped the contact, found another, who leaped to the panel,detonated the remainder of the flight of six missiles. Then I withdrew.I would have a few minutes' stay of execution now.     I was ten miles from shore. The capsule had its own power plant. Istarted it up, switched on the external viewer. I saw dark sea, theglint of star-light on the choppy surface, in the distance a glow onthe horizon that would be Key West. I plugged the course into thepilot, then leaned back and felt outward with my mind for the nextattacker.      IV     It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks in a stumblingwalk. Just a few more minutes, I was telling myself.      A few moreminutes and you can lie down ... rest....       The shadowed bulk of a box car loomed up, its open door a blackersquare. I leaned against the sill, breathing hard, then reached insidefor a grip with my good hand.     Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight lanced out, slippedalong the weathered car, caught me. There was a startled exclamation.I ducked back, closed my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was aconfused murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions from thecity all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to sleep—     I heard the snick of a revolver being cocked, and dropped flat as agout of flame stabbed toward me, the imperative Bam! echoing betweenthe cars. I caught the clear thought:     God-awful looking, shaved head, arm stuck out; him all right—     I reached out to his mind and struck at random. The light fell, wentout, and I heard the unconscious body slam to the ground like a poledsteer.     It was easy—if I could only stay awake.     I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled to a darkcorner behind a crate and slumped down. I tried to evoke a personalityfraction to set as a guard, a part of my mind to stay awake and warnme of danger. It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slidedown into darkness.  <doc-sep></s>","Kayle does not allow Granthan to re-enter Earth because he has a suspicion that Granthan might be under the control of the Gool. When Grantahn escaped the burning Belshazzar, he blacked out. He has no recollection of the incident. Granthan can also offer no explanation to Kayle as to why the ship was destroyed, or what happened to the rest of his crew. It is mysterious that Granthan was able to escape, especially while being so badly injured. Kayle believes that the Gool might have been the one to infiltrate Granthan's mind, and sabotage the mission, saving Granthan's life so he could return as a host to Earth. This would then allow the Gool to have a spy on Earth during the ongoing war. Even when Granthan tries to explain to Kayle that he has broken into a Gool's mind, and found data that would win them the war, Kayle is not convinced. He believes that the Gool will try anything to allow it's host to land. Kayle readies the missiles in the direction of Granthan's ship. While it is obvious that Kayle likes Granthan, and feels deep sympathy for him, he cannot take the risk of letting a Gool onto planet Earth. Even when Granthan manages to get past initial security on his descent, Kayle orders Granthan to stop. When Granthan lands on Earth, Kayle sends missiles to his location to take him out. Kayle can't let Granthan free on planet Earth, the risk would be too big in the war between mankind and the Gools. "
"<s>Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool itself, I struck,stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid blackness and grappled theobscene gelatinous immensity of the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzyof xenophobia—a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well.     I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on itself, gibbering.Not pausing to rest, I followed up, probed along my channel of contact,tracing patterns, scanning the flaccid Gool mind....     I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores of mud. Therewas a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur bubbled up from some innersource, filling an immense natural basin. The Gool clustered at itsrim, feeding, each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for amore favorable position.       I probed farther, saw the great cables of living nervous tissue thatlinked each eating organ with the brain-mass far underground. I tracedthe passages through which tendrils ran out to immense caverns wheresmaller creatures labored over strange devices. These, my host's memorytold me, were the young of the Gool. Here they built the fleets thatwould transport the spawn to the new worlds the Prime Overlord haddiscovered, worlds where food was free for the taking. Not sulphuralone, but potassium, calcium, iron and all the metals—richesbeyond belief in endless profusion. No longer would the Gool tribecluster—those who remained of a once-great race—at a single feedingtrough. They would spread out across a galaxy—and beyond.     But not if I could help it.     The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a stroke of bad luck.     In the past, they had managed to control a man here and there, amongthe fleets, far from home, but only at a superficial level. Enough,perhaps, to wreck a ship, but not the complete control needed to send aman back to Earth under Gool compulsion, to carry out complex sabotage.     Then they had found me, alone, a sole survivor, free from the clutterof the other mind-fields. It had been their misfortune to pick apsychodynamicist. Instead of gaining a patient slave, they had openedthe fortress door to an unseen spy. Now that I was there, I would seewhat I could steal.     A timeless time passed. I wandered among patterns of white light andwhite sound, plumbed the deepest recesses of hidden Gool thoughts,fared along strange ways examining the shapes and colors of theconcepts of an alien mind.     I paused at last, scanning a multi-ordinal structure of pattern withinpattern; the diagrammed circuits of a strange machine.     I followed through its logic-sequence; and, like a bomb-burst, itsmeaning exploded in my mind.     From the vile nest deep under the dark surface of the Gool world inits lonely trans-Plutonian orbit, I had plucked the ultimate secret oftheir kind.     Matter across space.  <doc-sep>I came out of it clear-headed but weak. My right leg was numb, butreasonably comfortable, clamped tight in a walking brace. I put upa hand and felt a shaved skull, with sutures. It must have been afracture. The left arm—well, it was still there, wrapped to theshoulder and held out stiffly by a power truss that would keep the scartissue from pulling up and crippling me. The steady pressure as thetruss contracted wasn't anything to do a sense-tape on for replaying atleisure moments, but at least the cabinet hadn't amputated. I wasn'tcomplaining.     As far as I knew, I was the first recorded survivor of contact with theGool—if I survived.     I was still a long way from home, and I hadn't yet checked on thecondition of the lifeboat. I glanced toward the entry port. It wasdogged shut. I could see black marks where my burned hand had been atwork.     I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In my condition—witha broken leg and third-degree burns, plus a fractured skull—Ishouldn't have been able to fall out of bed, much less make the tripfrom      Belshazzar's     CCC to the boat; and how had I managed to dog thatport shut? In an emergency a man was capable of great exertions. Butrunning on a broken femur, handling heavy levers with charred fingersand thinking with a cracked head were overdoing it. Still, I washere—and it was time to get a call through to TSA headquarters.     I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-letters Col. AusarKayle of Aerospace Intelligence had assigned to me a few weeks before.It was almost five minutes before the acknowledge came through fromthe Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes before Kayle's faceswam into view. Even through the blur of the screen I could see thehaggard look.     Granthan! he burst out. Where are the others? What happened outthere? I turned him down to a mutter.     Hold on, I said. I'll tell you. Recorders going? I didn't wait foran answer—not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on:           Belshazzar     was sabotaged. So was      Gilgamesh     —I think. I got out. Ilost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell theMed people the drinks are on me.     I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On thescreen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostileas a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I wouldget his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with a start.Kayle was talking.     —your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role inthe disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived?     How the hell do I know? I yelled—or croaked. But Kayle's voice wasdroning on:     ... you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool mayhave some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make itpossible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You'vetold me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—and came to onthe lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there.     This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike withoutwarning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate thepossibility of—what's that term you use?—hyper-cortical invasion. Youknow better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed topass the patrol line.     I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't acceptthe risk.     What do I do now? I stormed. Go into orbit and eat pills and hopeyou think of something? I need a doctor!     Presently Kayle replied. Yes, he said. You'll have to enter aparking orbit. Perhaps there will be developments soon which will makeit possible to ... ah ... restudy the situation. He didn't meet myeye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish ofknowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him; he was doingwhat he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along andpretend—right up until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'dbeen condemned to death.      II     I tried to gather my wits and think my way through the situation. Iwas alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat that would be the focus of aconverging flight of missiles as soon as I approached within batteryrange of Earth. I had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survivemy next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the chance that Iwas acting under Gool orders.     I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan,psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeksearlier. The thoughts I was having weren't brilliant, but they weremine, all mine....     But how could I be sure of that?     Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were asskillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications oftheir tampering—not at a conscious level.     But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reactinglike any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But Iwasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of themind—and I had been prepared for just such an attack.     Now was the time to make use of that training. It had given me oneresource. I could unlock the memories of my subconscious—and see againwhat had happened.     I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts, and concentrated onthe trigger word that would key an auto-hypnotic sequence....     Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous emptiness of afirst-level trance. I keyed a second word, slipped below the mistysurface into a dreamworld of vague phantasmagoric figures milling intheir limbo of sub-conceptualization. I penetrated deeper, brokethrough into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where images ofmirror-bright immediacy clamored for attention. And deeper....  <doc-sep>You've got to listen to me, Kayle, I shouted. I know you think I'ma Gool robot. But what I have is too big to let you blow it up withouta fight. Matter transmission! You know what that can mean to us. Theconcept is too complex to try to describe in words. You'll have to takemy word for it. I can build it, though, using standard components, plusan infinite-area antenna and a moebius-wound coil—and a few otherthings....     I harangued Kayle for a while, and then sweated out his answer. I wasgetting close now. If he couldn't see the beauty of my proposal, myscreens would start to register the radiation of warheads any time now.     Kayle came back—and his answer boiled down to no.     I tried to reason with him. I reminded him how I had readied myselffor the trip with sessions on the encephaloscope, setting up thecross-networks of conditioned defensive responses, the shunt circuitsto the decoy pseudo-personality, leaving my volitional ego free. Italked about subliminal hypnotics and the resilience quotient of theego-complex.     I might have saved my breath.     I don't understand that psychodynamics jargon, Granthan, he snapped.It smacks of mysticism. But I understand what the Gool have done toyou well enough. I'm sorry.     I leaned back and chewed the inside of my lip and thought unkindthoughts about Colonel Ausar Kayle. Then I settled down to solve theproblem at hand.     I keyed the chart file, flashed pages from the standard index on thereference screen, checking radar coverages, beacon ranges, monitorstations, controller fields. It looked as though a radar-negative boatthe size of mine might possibly get through the defensive net with adaring pilot, and as a condemned spy, I could afford to be daring.     And I had a few ideas.      III     The shrilling of the proximity alarm blasted through the silence. For awild moment I thought Kayle had beaten me to the punch; then I realizedit was the routine DEW line patrol contact.     Z four-oh-two, I am reading your IFF. Decelerate at 1.8 geepreparatory to picking up approach orbit....     The screen went on droning out instructions. I fed them into theautopilot, at the same time running over my approach plan. The scoutwas moving in closer. I licked dry lips. It was time to try.     I closed my eyes, reached out—as the Gool mind had reached out tome—and felt the touch of a Signals Officer's mind, forty thousandmiles distant, aboard the patrol vessel. There was a brief flurry ofstruggle; then I dictated my instructions. The Signals Officer punchedkeys, spoke into his microphone:     As you were, Z four-oh-two. Continue on present course. At Oh-nineteenseconds, pick up planetary for re-entry and let-down.     I blanked out the man's recollection of what had happened, caught hisbelated puzzlement as I broke contact. But I was clear of the DEW linenow, rapidly approaching atmosphere.     Z four-oh-two, the speaker crackled. This is planetary control. I ampicking you up on channel forty-three, for re-entry and let-down.     There was a long pause. Then:     Z four-oh-two, countermand DEW Line clearance! Repeat, clearancecountermanded! Emergency course change to standard hyperbolic codeninety-eight. Do not attempt re-entry. Repeat: do not attempt re-entry!     It hadn't taken Kayle long to see that I'd gotten past the outer lineof defense. A few more minutes' grace would have helped. I'd play itdumb, and hope for a little luck.     Planetary, Z four-oh-two here. Say, I'm afraid I missed part of that,fellows. I'm a little banged up—I guess I switched frequencies on you.What was that after 'pick up channel forty-three'...?     Four-oh-two, sheer off there! You're not cleared for re-entry!     Hey, you birds are mixed up, I protested. I'm cleared all the way. Ichecked in with DEW—     It was time to disappear. I blanked off all transmission, hit thecontrols, following my evasive pattern. And again I reached out—     A radar man at a site in the Pacific, fifteen thousand miles away, rosefrom his chair, crossed the darkened room and threw a switch. The radarscreens blanked off....     For an hour I rode the long orbit down, fending off attack afterattack. Then I was clear, skimming the surface of the ocean a few milessoutheast of Key West. The boat hit hard. I felt the floor rise up,over, buffeting me against the restraining harness.     I hauled at the release lever, felt a long moment of giddydisorientation as the escape capsule separated from the sinkinglifeboat deep under the surface. Then my escape capsule was bobbing onthe water.     I would have to risk calling Kayle now—but by voluntarily giving myposition away, I should convince him I was still on our side—and I wasbadly in need of a pick-up. I flipped the sending key.     This is Z four-oh-two, I said. I have an urgent report for ColonelKayle of Aerospace Intelligence.     Kayle's face appeared. Don't fight it, Granthan, he croaked. Youpenetrated the planetary defenses—God knows how. I—     Later, I snapped. How about calling off your dogs now? And sendsomebody out here to pick me up, before I add sea-sickness to my othercomplaints.     We have you pinpointed, Kayle cut in. It's no use fighting it,Granthan.  <doc-sep></s>","While searching his mind, Granthan finds a Gool, using this technique on him. He watches as the Gool traces out the pattern in his subconscious, studies and remembers it. He uses this new found skill to infiltrate the Gool's mind. In it he sees the Gool's home world, along with the rest of its colony, and a piece of theory that could win the war for Earth. When Granthan returns to the physical world to share the good news with Kayle, he is dismissed, and sentenced to death. Granthan flies onto Earth, reaches out with his mind, finding a Signal Officer. He convinces the officer to let him pass. He then infiltrates the mind of a radar man, forcing him to switch off the radar screens. When Kayle decides to send a fleet of missiles to Granthan's location in the pacific, Granthan reaches out with his mind, finds two men working in the control centre, and forces them to hit the self-destruct button on the bombs, saving his life. To escape his life boat, Granthan coerces a fisherman into taking him onboard, where they narrowly miss bombs being dropped on them. He then forces a driver to take him into town, convincing him that he was going to buy groceries. Granthan arrives at the train yard and uses his new power to defeat a guard who recognises Granthan, with a gun cocked towards him. While the train is stopped, he orders a man to buy him food, water and cigarettes, which the man delivers to him. When his train arrives in New Orleans, he forces a driver to take him into town, quickly diminishing his curiosity. When the cab driver arrives at the laboratories, Granthan finally convinces the man to drive around the field, leading to an open gate, where Granthan exits the car. "
"<s>When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request.     I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT.     And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger—     On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor.     Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!     The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you?     He smiled at her admiration. It      was     something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts.     No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals.     The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons.     And, ironically, a man who      did     commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs.     Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes.     Okay. Let's go.  <doc-sep>He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey!     He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare.     I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift.     As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference.     During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself.     He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room.     Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether.     Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks.     Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him—     He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't.     Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid—     He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean      ex     -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph.     Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero,      what washe     ?  <doc-sep>It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more.     Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion.     What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out.     In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought,      People are funny. Who can understand 'em?       Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now.     That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor.     Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it!     You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or—     Well, it's still a favor.     Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an      Ex     .  <doc-sep></s>","The setting of this story changes as the plot develops. When we first meet Peter Granthan, he is onboard a lifeboat, which is fleeing the now destroyed starship Belshazzar. He travels within range of planet Earth, where, onboard the lifeboat, he dives into his mind. He enters the setting of his subconscious, which is stark and expansive. Granthan travels through the Gool's mind to its home world. It is described as being filled with yellow seas, reaching out to endless shores of mud. There are great pits, rising with steam, in which the gools feed. Each cable underground connects to a massive brain, which controls the species. After Granthan's trip to the Alien planet, he lands on Earth, in the Pacific ocean, just outside of Key West. He then moves onto a train yard, where he boards a train. The train stops in a rural area, where, using a host, Granthan goes into a local shop to buy food. He travels to New  Orleans, where he arrives the next day. The area is swampy. He forces a driver to take him to a shappy, run down corner of the city, where he goes into a second hand clothes shop. Granthan then makes his way to the Delta National Laboratories, surrounded by a large field. He moves around the field in his taxi, before arriving at open gates to the Labs. "
"<s>Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool itself, I struck,stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid blackness and grappled theobscene gelatinous immensity of the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzyof xenophobia—a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well.     I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on itself, gibbering.Not pausing to rest, I followed up, probed along my channel of contact,tracing patterns, scanning the flaccid Gool mind....     I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores of mud. Therewas a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur bubbled up from some innersource, filling an immense natural basin. The Gool clustered at itsrim, feeding, each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for amore favorable position.       I probed farther, saw the great cables of living nervous tissue thatlinked each eating organ with the brain-mass far underground. I tracedthe passages through which tendrils ran out to immense caverns wheresmaller creatures labored over strange devices. These, my host's memorytold me, were the young of the Gool. Here they built the fleets thatwould transport the spawn to the new worlds the Prime Overlord haddiscovered, worlds where food was free for the taking. Not sulphuralone, but potassium, calcium, iron and all the metals—richesbeyond belief in endless profusion. No longer would the Gool tribecluster—those who remained of a once-great race—at a single feedingtrough. They would spread out across a galaxy—and beyond.     But not if I could help it.     The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a stroke of bad luck.     In the past, they had managed to control a man here and there, amongthe fleets, far from home, but only at a superficial level. Enough,perhaps, to wreck a ship, but not the complete control needed to send aman back to Earth under Gool compulsion, to carry out complex sabotage.     Then they had found me, alone, a sole survivor, free from the clutterof the other mind-fields. It had been their misfortune to pick apsychodynamicist. Instead of gaining a patient slave, they had openedthe fortress door to an unseen spy. Now that I was there, I would seewhat I could steal.     A timeless time passed. I wandered among patterns of white light andwhite sound, plumbed the deepest recesses of hidden Gool thoughts,fared along strange ways examining the shapes and colors of theconcepts of an alien mind.     I paused at last, scanning a multi-ordinal structure of pattern withinpattern; the diagrammed circuits of a strange machine.     I followed through its logic-sequence; and, like a bomb-burst, itsmeaning exploded in my mind.     From the vile nest deep under the dark surface of the Gool world inits lonely trans-Plutonian orbit, I had plucked the ultimate secret oftheir kind.     Matter across space.  <doc-sep>The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory level lay beforeme. Abstracted from it, aloof and observant, the monitoringpersonality-fraction scanned the pattern, searching the polydimensionalcontinuum for evidence of an alien intrusion.     And found it.     As the eye instantaneously detects a flicker of motion amid an infinityof static detail, so my inner eye perceived the subtle traces of theprobing Gool mind, like a whispered touch deftly rearranging my buriedmotivations.     I focused selectively, tuned to the recorded gestalt.           It is a contact, Effulgent One!                Softly, now! Nurture the spark well. It but trembles at thethreshold....                It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm in the eatingtrough!          A part of my mind watched as the memory unreeled. I listened to thevoices—yet not voices, merely the shape of concepts, indescribablyintricate. I saw how the decoy pseudo-personality which I hadconcretized for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had foughtagainst the intruding stimuli—then yielded under the relentless thrustof the alien probe. I watched as the Gool operator took over the motorcenters, caused me to crawl through the choking smoke of the devastatedcontrol compartment toward the escape hatch. Fire leaped up, blockingthe way. I went on, felt ghostly flames whipping at me—and then thehatch was open and I pulled myself through, forcing the broken leg.My blackened hand fumbled at the locking wheel. Then the blast asthe lifeboat leaped clear of the disintegrating dreadnought—and theworld-ending impact as I fell.     At a level far below the conscious, the embattled pseudo-personalitylashed out again—fighting the invader.           Almost it eluded me then, Effulgent Lord. Link with this lowly one!                Impossible! Do you forget all my teachings? Cling, though you expendthe last filament of your life-force!          Free from all distraction, at a level where comprehension and retentionare instantaneous and total, my monitoring basic personality fractionfollowed the skillful Gool mind as it engraved its commands deep inmy subconscious. Then the touch withdrew, erasing the scars of itspassage, to leave me unaware of its tampering—at a conscious level.     Watching the Gool mind, I learned.     The insinuating probe—a concept regarding which psychodynamicists hadtheorized—was no more than a pattern in emptiness....     But a pattern which I could duplicate, now that I had seen what hadbeen done to me.     Hesitantly, I felt for the immaterial fabric of the continuum, warpingand manipulating it, copying the Gool probe. Like planes of paper-thincrystal, the polyfinite aspects of reality shifted into focus, aligningthemselves.     Abruptly, a channel lay open. As easily as I would stretch out my handto pluck a moth from a night-flower, I reached across the unimaginablevoid—and sensed a pit blacker than the bottom floor of hell, and aglistening dark shape.     There was a soundless shriek.       Effulgence! It reached out—touchedme!       <doc-sep>I came out of it clear-headed but weak. My right leg was numb, butreasonably comfortable, clamped tight in a walking brace. I put upa hand and felt a shaved skull, with sutures. It must have been afracture. The left arm—well, it was still there, wrapped to theshoulder and held out stiffly by a power truss that would keep the scartissue from pulling up and crippling me. The steady pressure as thetruss contracted wasn't anything to do a sense-tape on for replaying atleisure moments, but at least the cabinet hadn't amputated. I wasn'tcomplaining.     As far as I knew, I was the first recorded survivor of contact with theGool—if I survived.     I was still a long way from home, and I hadn't yet checked on thecondition of the lifeboat. I glanced toward the entry port. It wasdogged shut. I could see black marks where my burned hand had been atwork.     I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In my condition—witha broken leg and third-degree burns, plus a fractured skull—Ishouldn't have been able to fall out of bed, much less make the tripfrom      Belshazzar's     CCC to the boat; and how had I managed to dog thatport shut? In an emergency a man was capable of great exertions. Butrunning on a broken femur, handling heavy levers with charred fingersand thinking with a cracked head were overdoing it. Still, I washere—and it was time to get a call through to TSA headquarters.     I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-letters Col. AusarKayle of Aerospace Intelligence had assigned to me a few weeks before.It was almost five minutes before the acknowledge came through fromthe Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes before Kayle's faceswam into view. Even through the blur of the screen I could see thehaggard look.     Granthan! he burst out. Where are the others? What happened outthere? I turned him down to a mutter.     Hold on, I said. I'll tell you. Recorders going? I didn't wait foran answer—not with a fifteen-minute transmission lag. I plowed on:           Belshazzar     was sabotaged. So was      Gilgamesh     —I think. I got out. Ilost a little skin, but the aid cabinet has the case in hand. Tell theMed people the drinks are on me.     I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for Kayle's reply. On thescreen, his flickering image gazed back impatiently, looking as hostileas a swing-shift ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I wouldget his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with a start.Kayle was talking.     —your report. I won't mince words. They're wondering at your role inthe disaster. How does it happen that you alone survived?     How the hell do I know? I yelled—or croaked. But Kayle's voice wasdroning on:     ... you Psychodynamics people have been telling me the Gool mayhave some kind of long-range telehypnotic ability that might make itpossible for them to subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You'vetold me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—and came to onthe lifeboat, with no recollection of how you got there.     This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy who strike withoutwarning and without mercy. You were sent out to investigate thepossibility of—what's that term you use?—hyper-cortical invasion. Youknow better than most the risk I'd be running if you were allowed topass the patrol line.     I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I can't acceptthe risk.     What do I do now? I stormed. Go into orbit and eat pills and hopeyou think of something? I need a doctor!     Presently Kayle replied. Yes, he said. You'll have to enter aparking orbit. Perhaps there will be developments soon which will makeit possible to ... ah ... restudy the situation. He didn't meet myeye. I knew what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental anguish ofknowing what was coming. I couldn't really blame him; he was doingwhat he thought was the right thing. And I'd have to go along andpretend—right up until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'dbeen condemned to death.      II     I tried to gather my wits and think my way through the situation. Iwas alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat that would be the focus of aconverging flight of missiles as soon as I approached within batteryrange of Earth. I had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survivemy next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the chance that Iwas acting under Gool orders.     I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Granthan,psychodynamicist, who had started out with Dayan's fleet six weeksearlier. The thoughts I was having weren't brilliant, but they weremine, all mine....     But how could I be sure of that?     Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If the Gool were asskillful as we thought, they would have left no overt indications oftheir tampering—not at a conscious level.     But this was where psychodynamics training came in. I had been reactinglike any scared casualty, aching to get home and lick his wounds. But Iwasn't just any casualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of themind—and I had been prepared for just such an attack.     Now was the time to make use of that training. It had given me oneresource. I could unlock the memories of my subconscious—and see againwhat had happened.     I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts, and concentrated onthe trigger word that would key an auto-hypnotic sequence....     Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous emptiness of afirst-level trance. I keyed a second word, slipped below the mistysurface into a dreamworld of vague phantasmagoric figures milling intheir limbo of sub-conceptualization. I penetrated deeper, brokethrough into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where images ofmirror-bright immediacy clamored for attention. And deeper....  <doc-sep></s>","The Gool are an evil Alien race, at war with planet Earth. They are a hive mind. Each being is an extension of a greater conscience. This conscience is hidden deep in their home world, a brain that connects to both the planet and its people. They are described as organs” to it. They can telepathically communicate with their leader through soundless thought. They have the ability to infiltrate the minds of their enemies, taking control over them and using them as hosts. This allows the species to sabotage missions, and create spies behind enemy lines. Their numbers have dwindled and what was once a great race, is now a mere colony. But they have plans to expand to newly discovered worlds, where they would replenish their numbers, and be mighty once again. They feed on minerals and metals. They could usually only take over certain minds, but never before like Granthan's. His mind was clear, out of the way of all the others, which made it easy for them to get their claws into him. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  THE SOUL EATERS     By WILLIAM CONOVER     Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance     to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose     ships were the scourge of the Void. But his     luck had run its course, and now he was     marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save     himself from a menace weapons could not kill.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]            And so, my dear     , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase,       I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by.          Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's.     The barbaric rhythms of the      Congahua     , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.     Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate.     A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.     It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla.     Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious      Verbena     , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian      Bacca-glas     , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote.     His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly.     Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Dennis Brooke was drinking and watching a dancer along with rereading the last letter of Marla, his fiancee, who accepted a new assignment and left him. At the same time he was regretting being grounded and on bad terms with I.S.P. for a mistake. Suddenly, he felt danger and when the Mercurial dancer approached him, a Martian attempted an attack. After a short fight, Dennis overcame the Martian who turned out to possess a prohibited weapon and supposedly was a space pirate. After capturing the pirate, Dennis was called by I.S.P. commander and told that Marla and her whole spaceship traveling to Terra disappeared, supposedly captured by Koerber, the head of pirates. Dennis begged to be sent for the pirate leader and the commander gave him this chance. They watched a recording of Marla's spaceship zig-zagging and being attacked, which ended with a blank screen. Dennis immediately set out to space on a cruiser. After a long search without success, something appeared on the visa-screen and the crew prepared to board. Nevertheless, no survivors were found and the Captain, Dennis, was out of hope. Everyone left in silence the spot of the tragedy of the attacked spacer. Back on the ship, one of the crew, George Randall, gladly informed that an object was detected. The crew rushed for the object which indeed turned out to be a pirate craft trying to escape the persecutor. Koerber's ship was soon doomed and he caught Dennis' ship with a beam to follow. The ship crashed and the crew found itself in a place without any chance to escape from. The captain ordered to explore the place and see what happened to Koerber for sure, while others will be welding, and the crew reentered the ship."
"<s>  THE SOUL EATERS     By WILLIAM CONOVER     Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance     to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose     ships were the scourge of the Void. But his     luck had run its course, and now he was     marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save     himself from a menace weapons could not kill.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]            And so, my dear     , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase,       I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by.          Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's.     The barbaric rhythms of the      Congahua     , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.     Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate.     A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.     It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla.     Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious      Verbena     , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian      Bacca-glas     , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote.     His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly.     Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there.  <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak:     Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed.     Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished.     Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision.     Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast.     Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ...      one     chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life!     Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death!     He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle.  <doc-sep>With a wrenching turn that almost threw them out of control, Dennismaneuvered to avoid the beam. Again Koerber's beam lashed out, as hesank lower into the looming mass, and again Dennis anticipating themaneuver avoided it.     George Randall! He shouted desperately into the speaker. Cut alljets in the rocket room! Hurry, man! He banked again and then zoomedout of the increasing gravity trap.     Randall! I've got to use the magnetic repulsion plates.... Cut all thejets! But there was no response. Randall's screen remained blank. ThenKoerber's lashing magnetic beam touched and the I.S.P. ship was caught,forced to follow the pirate ship's plunge like the weight at the end ofa whiplash. Koerber's gunners sent one parting shot, an atom-blast thatshook the trapped cruiser like a leaf.     Beneath them, growing larger by the second, a small world rushed up tomeet them. The readings in the Planetograph seemed to have gone crazy.It showed diameter 1200 miles; composition mineral and radio-active.Gravity seven-eighths of Terra. It couldn't be! Unless perhaps thisunknown planetoid was the legendary core of the world that at one timewas supposed to have existed between Jupiter and Mars. Only that couldpossibly explain the incredible gravity.     And then began another type of battle. Hearing the Captain's orders toRandall, and noting that no result had been obtained, Scotty Byrneshimself cut the jets. The Magnetic Repulsion Plates went into action,too late to save them from being drawn, but at least they could preventa crash. Far in the distance they could see Koerber's ship precedingthem in a free fall, then the Planetoid was rushing up to engulf them.      III     The atmosphere was somewhat tenuous, but it was breathable, provideda man didn't exert himself. To the silent crew of the I.S.P. Cruiser,the strange world to which Koerber's magnetic Beam had drawn them,was anything but reassuring. Towering crags jutted raggedly againstthe sky, and the iridescent soil of the narrow valley that walled inthe cruiser, had a poisonous, deadly look. As far as their eyes couldreach, the desolate, denuded vista stretched to the horizon.     Pretty much of a mess! Dennis Brooke's face was impassive as heturned to Scotty Byrnes. What's your opinion? Think we can patch herup, or are we stuck here indefinitely?     Scotty eyed the damage. The atom-blast had penetrated the hull intothe forward fuel chambers and the armor had blossomed out like flowerpetals. The crash-landing had not helped either.     Well, there's a few beryloid plates in the storage locker, Captain,but, he scratched his head ruminatively and shifted his precious cud.     But what? Speak up man! It was Tom Jeffery, his nerves on edge, hisordinarily gentle voice like a lash.     But, you may as well know it, Scotty replied quietly. That partingshot of Koerber's severed our main rocket feed. I had to use theemergency tank to make it down here!     For a long moment the four men looked at each other in silence. DennisBrooke's face was still impassive but for the flaming hazel eyes. Tomtugged at the torn sleeve of his I.S.P. uniform, while Scotty gazedmournfully at the damaged ship. Dallas Bernan looked at the long,ragged line of cliffs.     I think we got Koerber, though, he said at last. While Tom was doinga job of navigation, I had one last glimpse of him coming down fastand out of control somewhere behind those crags over there!     To hell with Koerber! Tom Jeffery exploded. You mean we're stuck inthis hellish rock-pile?     Easy, Tom! Captain Brooke's tones were like ice. On his pale,impassive face, his eyes were like flaming topaz. Where's Randall?     Probably hiding his head under a bunk! Dallas laughed with scorn. Hiscontemptuous remark voiced the feelings of the entire crew. A man whofailed to be at his battle-station in time of emergency, had no placein the I.S.P.     Considering the gravity of this planetoid, Dennis Brooke saidthoughtfully, it's going to take some blast to get us off!     Maybe we can locate a deposit of anerioum or uranium or something forour atom-busters to chew on! Scotty said hopefully. He was an eternaloptimist.     Better break out those repair plates, Dennis said to Scotty. Tom,you get the welders ready. I've got a few entries to make in the logbook, and then we'll decide on a party to explore the terrain and tryto find out what happened to Koerber's ship. I must know, he said in alow voice, but with such passion that the others were startled.     A figure appeared in the slanting doorway of the ship in time to hearthe last words. It was George Randall, adjusting a bandaged foreheadbumped during the crash landing.     Captain ... I ... I wanted ... he paused unable to continue.     You wanted what? Captain Brooke's voice was terse. Perhaps youwanted to explain why you weren't at your battle station?     Sir, I wanted to know if ... if I might help Scotty with the weldingjob.... That wasn't at all what he'd intended to say. But somehow thewords had stuck in his throat and his face flushed deep scarlet. Hiscandid blue eyes were suspiciously brilliant, and the white bandagewith its crimson stains made an appealing, boyish figure. It softenedthe anger in Brooke's heart. Thinking it over calmly, Dennis realizedthis was the youngster's first trip into the outer orbits, and bettermen than he had cracked in those vast reaches of space. But there hadbeen an instant when he'd found Randall cowering in the rocket-room, inthe grip of paralyzing hysteria, when he could cheerfully have wrunghis neck!     Certainly, Randall, he replied in a much more kindly tone. We'llneed all hands now.     Thank you, sir! Randall seemed to hesitate for a moment, opened hismouth to speak further, but feeling the other's calculating gaze uponhim, he whirled and re-entered the ship.     But for him we wouldn't be here! Dallas exclaimed. Aagh! He shookhis head in disgust until the several folds of flesh under his chinshook like gelatin. Cowards are hell! He spat.     Easy, Dallas, Randall's a kid, give 'im a chance. Dennis observed.     You Captain ... you're defending 'im? Why you had a greater stake inthis than we, and he's spoiled it for you!     Yep, Dennis nodded. But I'm still keeping my senses clear. No feudson my ship. Get it! The last two words cut like a scimitar.     Dallas nodded and lowered his eyes. Scotty shifted his cud and spata thin stream of juice over the iridescent ground. One by one theyre-entered the cruiser.  <doc-sep></s>","Marla used to be a fiancee of Dennis, but she broke up with him and left for an assignment. Her poignant last letter pained Dennis, but he kept rereading it, delving into drinks, dancers and images of Marla. This condition even caused him to fail his commander and be grounded. The break up left a huge void in Dennis and he had no desire to see other women. The news of her disappearance made Dennis pale and silent, he felt extreme pain, which was soon accompanied by anger towards Koerber. Dennis desired to rush that very second to search for Marla and bring Koerber, risking his own life. All the time without success Dennis was slowly losing hope, and when he didn't find any survivors, he was silent and devastated with the loss of hope to find Marla."
"<s>  THE SOUL EATERS     By WILLIAM CONOVER     Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance     to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose     ships were the scourge of the Void. But his     luck had run its course, and now he was     marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save     himself from a menace weapons could not kill.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]            And so, my dear     , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase,       I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by.          Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's.     The barbaric rhythms of the      Congahua     , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.     Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate.     A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.     It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla.     Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious      Verbena     , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian      Bacca-glas     , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote.     His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly.     Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there.  <doc-sep>Leaping to one side, impervious to the fall of the dancer, he avoidedthe murderous rush of the Martian youth, then he wheeled swiftly andplanted a sledge-hammer blow in that most vulnerable spot of allMartians, the spot just below their narrow, wasp-like waist, and as theMartian half-doubled over, he lefted him with a short jab to the chinthat staggered and all but dropped him.     The Martian's violet eyes were black with fury now. He staggered backand sucked in air, his face contorted with excruciating pain. But hewas not through. His powerful right shot like a blast straight forDennis' chest, striking like a piston just below the heart. Dennis tookit, flat-footed, without flinching; then he let his right ride overwith all the force at his command. It caught the Martian on the jaw andspun him like a top, the pale, imperious face went crimson as he slowlysagged to his knees and rolled to the impeccable mosaics of the floor.     Dennis, breathing heavily, stood over him until the internationalpolice arrived, and then he had the surprise of his life. Upon search,the police found a tiny, but fatal silvery tube holstered under hisleft arm-pit—an atomic-disintegrator, forbidden throughout theinterplanetary League. Only major criminals and space pirates stillwithout the law were known to possess them.     Looks like your brawl has turned out to be a piece of fool's luck,Brooke! The Police Lieutenant favored Dennis with a wry smile. IfI'm not mistaken this chap's a member of Bren Koerber's pirate crew.Who else could afford to risk his neck at the International, and havein his possession a disintegrator? Pity we have no complete recordson that devil's crew! Anyway, we'll radio the I.S.P., perhaps theyhave details on this dandy! He eyed admiringly the priceless Martianembroideries on the unconscious Martian's tunic, the costly border ofred, ocelandian fur, and the magnificent black      acerine     on his finger.     Dennis Brooke shrugged his shoulders, shoulders that would have put toshame the Athenian statues of another age. A faint, bitter smile curvedhis generous mouth. I'm grounded, Gillian, it'd take the capture ofKoerber himself to set me right with the I.S.P. again—you don't knowBertram! To him an infraction of rules is a major crime. Damn Venus!He reached for his glass of      Verbena     but the table had turned overduring the struggle, and the glass was a shattered mass of gleaming      Bacca-glas     shards. He laughed shortly as he became conscious of thevenomous stare of the Mercurian Dancer, of the excited voices of theguests and the emphatic disapproval of the Venusian proprietor whowas shocked at having a brawl in his ultra-expensive, ultra-exclusivePalace.     Better come to Headquarters with me, Dennis, the lieutenant saidgently. We'll say you captured him, and if he's Koerber's, thecredit's yours. A trip to Terra's what you need, Venus for you is ahoodoo!  <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak:     Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed.     Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished.     Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision.     Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast.     Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ...      one     chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life!     Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death!     He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle.  <doc-sep></s>","Dennis was forced to fight back and exit his state of stagnation, caused by being grounded at work and left by fiancee. When he overcame the enemy, the least turned out to be a space pirate, bearing a prohibited weapon. That way Dennis stopped and imprisoned a criminal, who turned out to possess useful information about Koerber's present activities. This helpful action, together with Dennis' personal interest in success of the mission and his skills of a spacer, made the commander give Dennis a chance to redeem himself. For that reason Dennis was sent to search for Koerber and he set out for the adventure."
"<s>  THE SOUL EATERS     By WILLIAM CONOVER     Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance     to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose     ships were the scourge of the Void. But his     luck had run its course, and now he was     marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save     himself from a menace weapons could not kill.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]            And so, my dear     , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase,       I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by.          Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's.     The barbaric rhythms of the      Congahua     , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.     Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate.     A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.     It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla.     Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious      Verbena     , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian      Bacca-glas     , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote.     His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly.     Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there.  <doc-sep>Leaping to one side, impervious to the fall of the dancer, he avoidedthe murderous rush of the Martian youth, then he wheeled swiftly andplanted a sledge-hammer blow in that most vulnerable spot of allMartians, the spot just below their narrow, wasp-like waist, and as theMartian half-doubled over, he lefted him with a short jab to the chinthat staggered and all but dropped him.     The Martian's violet eyes were black with fury now. He staggered backand sucked in air, his face contorted with excruciating pain. But hewas not through. His powerful right shot like a blast straight forDennis' chest, striking like a piston just below the heart. Dennis tookit, flat-footed, without flinching; then he let his right ride overwith all the force at his command. It caught the Martian on the jaw andspun him like a top, the pale, imperious face went crimson as he slowlysagged to his knees and rolled to the impeccable mosaics of the floor.     Dennis, breathing heavily, stood over him until the internationalpolice arrived, and then he had the surprise of his life. Upon search,the police found a tiny, but fatal silvery tube holstered under hisleft arm-pit—an atomic-disintegrator, forbidden throughout theinterplanetary League. Only major criminals and space pirates stillwithout the law were known to possess them.     Looks like your brawl has turned out to be a piece of fool's luck,Brooke! The Police Lieutenant favored Dennis with a wry smile. IfI'm not mistaken this chap's a member of Bren Koerber's pirate crew.Who else could afford to risk his neck at the International, and havein his possession a disintegrator? Pity we have no complete recordson that devil's crew! Anyway, we'll radio the I.S.P., perhaps theyhave details on this dandy! He eyed admiringly the priceless Martianembroideries on the unconscious Martian's tunic, the costly border ofred, ocelandian fur, and the magnificent black      acerine     on his finger.     Dennis Brooke shrugged his shoulders, shoulders that would have put toshame the Athenian statues of another age. A faint, bitter smile curvedhis generous mouth. I'm grounded, Gillian, it'd take the capture ofKoerber himself to set me right with the I.S.P. again—you don't knowBertram! To him an infraction of rules is a major crime. Damn Venus!He reached for his glass of      Verbena     but the table had turned overduring the struggle, and the glass was a shattered mass of gleaming      Bacca-glas     shards. He laughed shortly as he became conscious of thevenomous stare of the Mercurian Dancer, of the excited voices of theguests and the emphatic disapproval of the Venusian proprietor whowas shocked at having a brawl in his ultra-expensive, ultra-exclusivePalace.     Better come to Headquarters with me, Dennis, the lieutenant saidgently. We'll say you captured him, and if he's Koerber's, thecredit's yours. A trip to Terra's what you need, Venus for you is ahoodoo!  <doc-sep>The stern, white haired I.S.P. Commander behind the immense Aluminildesk, frowned slightly as Dennis Brooke entered. He eyed the six footfour frame of the Captain before him with a mixture of feelings, asif uncertain how to begin. Finally, he sighed as if, having come to adecision, he were forcing himself to speak:     Sit down, Dennis. I've sent for you, despite your grounding, fortwo reasons. The first one you already know—your capture of one ofKoerber's henchmen—has given us a line as to his present orbit ofpiracy, and the means of a check on his activities. But that's notreally why I've brought you here. He frowned again as if what he hadto say were difficult indeed.     Marla Starland, your fiancee, accepted an assignment we offered her—adelicate piece of work here on Terra that only a very beautiful, andvery clever young lady could perform. And, he paused, grimacing,somewhere between Venus and Terra, the interplanetary spacer bringingher and several other passengers, began to send distress signals.Finally, we couldn't contact the ship any more. It is three daysoverdue. All passengers, a cargo of radium from Venus worth untoldmillions, the spacer itself—seem to have vanished.     Dennis Brooke's space-tanned features had gone pale. His large hazeleyes, fringed with auburn lashes, too long for a man, were bright slitsthat smouldered. He stood silent, his hands clenched at his sides,while something cold and sharp seemed to dig at his heart with cruelprecision.     Marla! He breathed at last. The thought of Marla in the powerof Koerber sent a wave of anguish that seared through him like anatom-blast.     Commander, Dennis said, and his rich baritone voice had depths ofemotion so great that they startled Commander Bertram himself—andthat grizzled veteran of the I.S.P., had at one time or another knownevery change of torture that could possibly be wrung on a human soul.Commander, give me one ...      one     chance at that spawn of unthinkablebegetting! Let me try, and I promise you ... in his torture, Denniswas unconsciously banging a knotted fist on the chaste, satiny surfaceof the priceless desk, I promise you that I will either bring youKoerber, or forfeit my life!     Commander Bertram nodded his head. I brought you here for thatpurpose, son. We have reached a point in our war with Koerber, wherethe last stakes must be played ... and the last stake is death!     He reached over and flipped up the activator on a small telecast seton his desk; instantly the viso-screen lighted up. You'll now seea visual record of all we know about the passenger spacer that leftVenus with passengers and cargo, as far as we could contact the vesselin space. This, Dennis, the Commander emphasized his words, is yourchance to redeem yourself! He fell silent, while the viso-screen beganto show a crowded space port on Venus, and a gigantic passenger spacerup-tilted in its cradle.  <doc-sep></s>","Dennis works as an I.S.P. captain. His commander Bertram calls him son and is compassionate for the los of Marla. The commander values him and estimates as the best spacer. The Police Lieutenant is also friendly towards Dennis and willing to help him redeem, by saying that Dennis captured the pirate. Dennis' crew on the mission after Koerber heard the stories about the Captain and all were curious but silent, as if they were touched by his tragedy. The crew was loyal and trusted the captain. Dennis was sympathetic and full of humanity towards the young George Randall who failed the crew as it was his first mission. This action was a surprise for other members but none protested."
"<s>  THE SOUL EATERS     By WILLIAM CONOVER     Firebrand Dennis Brooke had one final chance     to redeem himself by capturing Koerber whose     ships were the scourge of the Void. But his     luck had run its course, and now he was     marooned on a rogue planet—fighting to save     himself from a menace weapons could not kill.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]            And so, my dear     , Dennis detected a faint irony in the phrase,       I'mafraid I can offer no competition to the beauties of five planets—oris it six? With regret I bow myself out, and knowing me as you do,you'll understand the futility of trying to convince me again. Anyway,there will be no temptation, for I'm sailing on a new assignment I'veaccepted. I did love you.... Good-by.          Dennis Brooke had lost count of the times he'd read Marla's lastletter, but every time he came to these final, poignant lines, theynever failed to conjure a vision of her tawny loveliness, slender asthe palms of Venus, and of the blue ecstasy of her eyes, wide with aperpetual wonder—limpid as a child's.     The barbaric rhythms of the      Congahua     , were a background of annoyancein Dennis' mind; he frowned slightly as the maneuvers of the Mercuriandancer, who writhed among the guests of the notorious pleasure palace,began to leave no doubt as to her intentions. The girl was beautiful,in a sultry, almost incandescent sort of way, but her open promise lefthim cold. He wanted solitude, somewhere to coordinate his thoughtsin silence and salvage something out of the wreck of his heart, notto speak of his career. But Venus, in the throes of a gigantic boomupon the discovery of radio-active fields, could offer only onesolitude—the fatal one of her swamps and virgin forests.     Dennis Brooke was thirty, the time when youth no longer seems unending.When the minor adventures of the heart begin to pall. If the loss ofMarla left an aching void that all the women of five planets could notfill, the loss of Space, was quite as deadly. For he had been grounded.True, Koerber's escape from the I.S.P. net had not quite been hisfault; but had he not been enjoying the joys of a voluptuous JovianChamber, in Venus' fabulous Inter-planetary Palace, he would have beenready for duty to complete the last link in the net of I.S.P. cruisersthat almost surrounded the space pirate.     A night in the Jovian Chamber, was to be emperor for one night. Everydream of a man's desire was marvelously induced through the skilful useof hypnotics; the rarest viands and most delectable drinks appeared asif by magic; the unearthly peace of an Olympus descended on a man'ssoul, and beauty ... beauty such as men dreamed of was a warm realityunder the ineffable illumination of the Chamber.     It cost a young fortune. But to pleasure mad, boom-ridden Venus, afortune was a bagatelle. Only it had cost Dennis Brooke far more than asheaf of credits—it had cost him the severe rebuff of the I.S.P., andmost of his heart in Marla.     Dennis sighed, he tilted his red, curly head and drank deeply of theinsidious      Verbena     , fragrant as a mint garden, in the tall frostyglass of Martian      Bacca-glas     , and as he did so, his brilliant hazeleyes found themselves gazing into the unwinking, violet stare of ayoung Martian at the next table. There was a smouldering hatred inthose eyes, and something else ... envy, perhaps, or was it jealousy?Dennis couldn't tell. But his senses became instantly alert. Dangerbrought a faint vibration which his superbly trained faculties couldinstantly denote.     His steady, bronzed hand lowered the drink, and his eyes narrowedslightly. Absorbed in trying to puzzle the sudden enmity of thisMartian stranger, he was unaware of the Mercurian Dancer. The latterhad edged closer, whirling in prismatic flashes from the myriadsemi-precious stones that studded her brief gauze skirt. And now, ina final bid for the spacer's favor she flung herself in his lap andtilted back invitingly.     Some of the guests laughed, others stared in plain envy at thehandsome, red-haired spacer, but from the table across, came thetinkling sound of a fragile glass being crushed in a powerful hand,and a muffled Martian curse. Without warning, the Martian was on hisfeet with the speed of an Hellacorium, the table went crashing to oneside as he leaped with deadly intent on the sprawled figure of DennisBrooke. A high-pitched scream brought instant silence as a Terran girlcried out. Then the Martian's hand reached out hungrily. But Dennis wasnot there.  <doc-sep>Bbulas slid the ornate headdress over his antennae, which, alreadygilded and jeweled, at once seemed to become a part of it. He lookedpretty damn silly, Skkiru thought, at the same time conscious of hisown appearance—which was, although picturesque enough to delightromantic Terrestrial hearts, sufficiently wretched to charm the mosthardened sadist.     Hurry up, Skkiru, Bbulas said. They mustn't suspect the existence ofthe city underground or we're finished before we've started.     For my part, I wish we'd never started, Skkiru grumbled. What waswrong with our old culture, anyway?     That was intended as a rhetorical question, but Bbulas answered itanyway. He always answered questions; it had never seemed to penetratehis mind that school-days were long since over.     I've told you a thousand times that our old culture was too much likethe Terrans' own to be of interest to them, he said, with affectedweariness. After all, most civilized societies are basically similar;it is only primitive societies that differ sharply, one from theother—and we have to be different to attract Earthmen. They're prettychoosy. You've got to give them what they want, and that's what theywant. Now take up your post on the edge of the field, try to lookhungry, and remember this isn't for you or for me, but for Snaddra.     For Snaddra, Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heartin a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemedto indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certainessential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath thanin the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrialinfluence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had beensuch a nice girl, too.     We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru, she told him, with along, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quiveringtoes, but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—andI hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation withBbulas.     If that doesn't, Bbulas said, I have other methods of inspiration.     All right, Skkiru answered sulkily. I'll go to the edge of thefield, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normalhabits and customs, and I'll even      beg     . But I don't have to like doingit, and I don't intend to like doing it.     All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. I'm proud of you,Skkiru, she said brokenly.     Bbulas sniffed. The three of them floated up to ground level in atriple silence.  <doc-sep>III     From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands oflight-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer andnearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrumswith booming savagery.     —coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out—     Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situationin which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the      Chickadee     , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. Helay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps.And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all theplanets that circle the Sun....     Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. Thechase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength,born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head.     My—my companions? he demanded weakly.     The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massiveof shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw,raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk,loosed a satisfied grunt.     Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time!     Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—buthe managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelmhim, and confronted the big man boldly.     What, he stormed, is the meaning of this?     The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then hisraven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawedin boisterous mirth.     Hear that? he roared to his companions. Quite a guy, ain't he?'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement inhis eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. Histone assumed a biting edge. The meanin' is, my bucko, he answeredmirthlessly, that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you havea sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast andstraight!     Talk?     Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nicehaul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way. The burly onechuckled coarsely. We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped mattersout by comin' to us.     Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend'sominous warning. —if your message was intercepted, you may haveplayed into the hands of— He said slowly, Then you      are     theLorelei's men?     The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where didit come from?     And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man      did     holdthe whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most importantsecret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained asecret, a deadlock existed.     And if I won't tell—? he countered shrewdly.     Why, then, sailor— The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, anda cold light glinted in his eyes—why, then I guess maybe I'll have tobeat it out o' you!  <doc-sep></s>","The story starts on Venus, in a pleasure palace where Dennis is trying to distract himself from his ex-fiancee and being grounded on his job. After an attack followed by Dennis' victory, he proceeds Headquarters with the police and soon enters the I.S.P. commander's office. From there he immediately sets off to space on a ship, searching for days through the space for any signs of pirates or the disappeared spaceship. The first stop is the remnants of transport lacking any use. The second is a detected pirate spaceship, which the crew starts to follow. The setting of the chase remains in space, and after being engulfed by a Planetoid, the crew find itself in a strange world. The setting was rocky and looked deadly. Only desolate vista was seen around. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any specialattention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But thequestions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish couldsee the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under theman's lapel.     Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.     Ish nodded.     How's that?     The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said Yes for therecorder's benefit.     Odd jobs, first of all?     Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. AfterI was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops.     Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it?     Ahuh.     Took some of your pay in flying lessons.     Right.     MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair,seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, hisstubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—onlya step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tiredstrand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.     Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations.This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letterdangerous—because of it.     No family.     Ish shrugged. Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father wasmaking good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need toworry about them.     Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought.MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it stillpassed no judgements.     How's things between you and the opposite sex?     About normal.     No wife—no steady girl.     Not a very good idea, in my racket.     MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swungtoward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimedbetween Isherwood's eyes. You can't go!     Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in histemple veins. What! he roared.     MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burstwas over, and his face was apologetic, Sorry, he said. He seemedgenuinely abashed. Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go,all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions anddrives.     Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and morefear than he wanted to admit. I'm due at a briefing, he said tautly.You through with me?     MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. Sorry.     Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send aparting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. Big gun in thepsychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc.They did put      some     learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy,hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!     I don't know, MacKenzie said softly. I wish I did.     Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming afresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelvehours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.     Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn'tseemed to take up that much of his time.     He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, helost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization thatnothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He wasgoing. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of Marty! ringingin the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster,as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.    <doc-sep>By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens.     In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved.     The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat.     The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically.     Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn.     Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police.     They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands!     They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.     Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends.     On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.     He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion.  <doc-sep></s>","William Manet is working in atmosphere seeder station 131-47 on Mars. He is completely alone, but doesn't fear loneliness, he welcomes it, and the idea that it might drive him mad one day. His job is to wait, looking out at the expanse of nothingness around him. He is an overseer, to prepare the atmosphere for colonization. One day, Manet thinks he sees a spaceship land near his station. He puts on his pressure suit and heads out to see what it is. As he walks towards it, he finds himself in a rustic log cabin, where a lean, tall man stands, waiting for him. The man calls himself Trader Tom, and offers him a very interesting service. He tells Manet that he will give him a special credit card that will allow him to purchase anything he can think of. Manet's estate would cover the cost, and when Manet asks the man what would happen if he had no estate, Trader Tom simply says that this is a risk that he, and his business, take. Trader Tom asks what would Manet like, to which he replies: to not be alone. Manet signs some paperwork and is given the credit card. Manet is given a box, it is called LIFO, the socialisation kit. The box contains various items from a person's lifetime. On top is a book entitled The Making Of Friends and Others''. It orders the user to find the modifier, which Manet cannot locate. He goes to work anyway, on making his first friend with the tools inside the kit. His first friend he creates is named Ronald. He seems sweet at first but his incessant optimism and lack of intelligence finally becomes too much for Manet. Manet decides to lock Ronald in a room away from him. He is stuck on this planet for the next eighteen years, and will need some kind of company. He goes to work on creating his second companion, a girl. Veronica is sweet, she talks kindly to Manet, and throws herself at him, which he swerves. Manet thinks her to be even more stupid than Ronald, and ends up striking her, which he finds he enjoys. He locks her in the same room as Ronald. Manet once again goes back to the box, and goes to the last page of the handbook, entitled, The Final Model. He creates this new being, whom he calls Victor. Victor jumps to life, and into the kit, destroying the item that Manet now realises was the modifier. Vitor explains to Manet that he is his enemy. He is just as intelligent as Manet, and is his designated adversary. Now that the modifier is destroyed, Manet will have no way to ever alter Veronica or Ronald, and will be stuck with the same silly, innocent people as he grows old. Manet will be bored for eighteen years. Manet replies to Victor, explaining, now that he has an enemy, he will never be bored. "
"<s>   IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  <doc-sep>She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.     And I heard the voice nearly every night.     It hammered away.           What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now!          One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.     She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said,       Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way.          Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.     I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office.     I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.      II     Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself.     At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did.     The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology.     Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature.     There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in.     Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same.     Thanks, I said absent-mindedly.     I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for—     I switched it off.  <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek.     I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan.     We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.     For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.     She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.     After that she was very business-like.     We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation.     She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult.     She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy.     It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych.     Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments.     The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C.     I don't get it, exactly.     As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number.     I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!     It looks very uncertain then.     Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!     She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was?     Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down.     That might be your chance then.     How do you mean?     If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change.     By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him?     I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment.     She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices.     We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain.     I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit?     Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough.     I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?'  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place on Mars. Manet is the sole occupant of the Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47. There is nothing to be seen in any direction far beyond the horizon. Mars is described like a blank canvas. It is a boring, desolate place, which only adds to Manet's feelings of loneliness and boredom. Manet crosses from his station to Trader Tom's starship at the beginning of the story. The inner compartment of the ship is like that of a log cabin. There is a slate fireplace with black and orange log charring. The fireplace holds a crackling fire. Manet moves through different rooms in his station throughout the story. When Manet first gets the box, he puts it by a transparent wall in one of the rooms of the station. He moves from his bedroom, the file room, the tube way, to communication, to an area where he plays chess with Ronald, to the solarium,  to another room where he eventually locks both Ronald and Veronica."
"<s>Manet didn't open the box. He let it fade quietly in the filtered butstill brilliant sunlight near a transparent wall.     Manet puttered around the spawning monster, trying to brush the coppertaste of the station out of his mouth in the mornings, talking tohimself, winking at Annie Oakley, and waiting to go mad.     Finally, Manet woke up one morning. He lay in the sheets of his bunk,suppressing the urge to go wash his hands, and came at last to theconclusion that, after all the delay, he was mad.     So he went to open the box.     The cardboard lid seemed to have become both brittle and rotten. Itcrumbled as easily as ideals. But Manet was old enough to remember theboxes Japanese toys came in when he was a boy, and was not alarmed.     The contents were such a glorious pile of junk, of bottles from oldchemistry sets, of pieces from old Erector sets, of nameless things andunremembered antiques from neglected places, that it seemed too good tohave been assembled commercially. It was the collection of lifetime.     On top of everything was a paperbound book, the size of the      Reader'sDigest     , covered in rippled gray flexiboard. The title was stamped inblack on the spine and cover:      The Making of Friends     .     Manet opened the book and, turning one blank page, found the titlein larger print and slightly amplified:      The Making of Friends andOthers     . There was no author listed. A further line of informationstated: A Manual for Lifo, The Socialization Kit. At the bottom ofthe title page, the publisher was identified as: LIFO KIT CO., LTD.,SYRACUSE.     The unnumbered first chapter was headed      Your First Friend     .     Before you go further, first find the      Modifier     in your kit. Thisis      vital     .     He quickly riffled through the pages.      Other Friends, Authority, ACompanion     .... Then      The Final Model     . Manet tried to flip past thissection, but the pages after the sheet labeled      The Final Model     werestuck together. More than stuck. There was a thick slab of plastic inthe back of the book. The edges were ridged as if there were pages tothis section, but they could only be the tracks of lame ants.     Manet flipped back to page one.     First find the      Modifier     in your kit. This is      vital     to your entireexperiment in socialization. The      Modifier is Part #A-1     on the MasterChart.     He prowled through the box looking for some kind of a chart. Therewas nothing that looked like a chart inside. He retrieved the lid andlooked at its inside. Nothing. He tipped the box and looked at itsoutside. Not a thing. There was always something missing from kits.Maybe even the      Modifier     itself.     He read on, and probed and scattered the parts in the long box. Hestudied the manual intently and groped out with his free hand.     The toe bone was connected to the foot bone....       The Red King sat smugly in his diagonal corner.     The Black King stood two places away, his top half tipsy in frustration.     The Red King crabbed sideways one square.     The Black King pounced forward one space.     The Red King advanced backwards to face the enemy.     The Black King shuffled sideways.     The Red King followed....     Uselessly.     Tie game, Ronald said.     Tie game, Manet said.     Let's talk, Ronald said cheerfully. He was always cheerful.     Cheerfulness was a personality trait Manet had thumbed out for him.Cheerful. Submissive. Co-operative. Manet had selected these factors inorder to make Ronald as different a person from himself as possible.     The Korean-American War was the greatest of all wars, Ronald saidpontifically.     Only in the air, Manet corrected him.     Intelligence was one of the factors Manet had punched to suppress.Intelligence. Aggressiveness. Sense of perfection. Ronald couldn't knowany more than Manet, but he could (and did) know less. He had seen tothat when his own encephalograph matrix had programmed Ronald's feeder.     There were no dogfights in Korea, Ronald said.     I know.     The dogfight was a combat of hundreds of planes in a tight area, thelast of which took place near the end of the First World War. Theaerial duel, sometimes inaccurately referred to as a 'dogfight' was notseen in Korea either. The pilots at supersonic speeds only had time forsingle passes at the enemy. Still, I believe, contrary to all experts,that this took greater skill, man more wedded to machine, than theleisurely combats of World War One.     I know.     Daniel Boone was still a crack shot at eight-five. He was said to bewarm, sincere, modest, truthful, respected and rheumatic.     I know.  <doc-sep>Ronald's cries grew louder as Manet marched Veronica through thecorridor.     Hear that? he inquired, smiling with clenched teeth.     No, darling.     Well, that was all right. He remembered he had once told her to ignorethe noise. She was still following orders.     Come on, Bill, open up the hatch for old Ronald, the voice carriedthrough sepulchrally.     Shut up! Manet yelled.     The voice dwindled stubbornly, then cut off.     A silence with a whisper of metallic ring to it.     Why hadn't he thought of that before? Maybe because he secretly tookcomfort in the sound of an almost human voice echoing through thestation.     Manet threw back the bolt and wheeled back the hatch.     Ronald looked just the same as had when Manet had seen him last. Hishands didn't seem to have been worn away in the least. Ronald's lipsseemed a trifle chapped. But that probably came not from all theshouting but from having nothing to drink for some months.     Ronald didn't say anything to Manet.     But he looked offended.     You, Manet said to Veronica with a shove in the small of the back,inside, inside.     Ronald sidestepped the lurching girl.     Do you know what I'm going to do with you? Manet demanded. I'm goingto lock you up in here, and leave you for a day, a month, a year,forever! Now what do you think about that?     If you think it's the      right     thing, dear, Veronica said hesitantly.     You know best, Willy, Ronald said uncertainly.     Manet slammed the hatch in disgust.     Manet walked carefully down the corridor, watching streamers ofhis reflection corkscrewing into the curved walls. He had to walkcarefully, else the artery would roll up tight and squash him. But hewalked too carefully for this to happen.     As he passed the File Room, Ronald's voice said: In my opinion,William, you should let us out.     I, Veronica said, honestly feel that you should let me out, Bill,dearest.     Manet giggled. What? What was that? Do you suggest that I take youback after you've been behind a locked door with my best friend?     He went down the corridor, giggling.     He giggled and thought: This will never do.  <doc-sep>Manet knew it all. He had heard it all before.     He was so damned sick of hearing about Korean air battles, DanielBoone, the literary qualities of ancient sports fiction magazines,the painting of Norman Rockwell, New York swing,      ad nauseum     . What anarrow band of interests! With the whole universe to explore in thoughtand concept, why did he have to be trapped with such an unoriginalhuman being?     Of course, Ronald wasn't an original human being. He was a copy.     Manet had been interested in the Fabulous Forties—Lt. Hoot Gibson,Sam Merwin tennis stories,      Saturday Evening Post     covers—when he hadfirst learned of them, and he had learned all about them. He had firmopinions on all these.     He yearned for someone to challenge him—to say that      Dime Sports     hadbeen nothing but a cheap yellow rag and, why,      Sewanee Review     , therehad been a magazine for you.     Manet's only consolidation was that Ronald's tastes were lower than hisown. He patriotically insisted that the American Sabre Jet was superiorto the Mig. He maintained with a straight face that Tommy Dorsey was abetter band man than Benny Goodman. Ronald was a terrific jerk.     Ronald, Manet said, you are a terrific jerk.     Ronald leaped up immediately and led with his right.     Manet blocked it deftly and threw a right cross.     Ronald blocked it deftly, and drove in a right to the navel.     The two men separated and, puffing like steam locomotives passing thediesel works, closed again.     Ronald leaped forward and led with his right.     Manet stepped inside the swing and lifted an uppercut to the ledge ofRonald's jaw.     Ronald pinwheeled to the floor.     He lifted his bruised head from the deck and worked his reddened mouth.Had enough? he asked Manet.     Manet dropped his fists to his sides and turned away. Yes.     Ronald hopped up lightly. Another checkers, Billy Boy?     No.     Okay. Anything you want, William, old conquerer.     Manet scrunched up inside himself in impotent fury.     Ronald was maddeningly co-operative and peaceful. He would even get ina fist fight to avoid trouble between them. He would do anything Manetwanted him to do. He was so utterly damned stupid.     Manet's eyes orbitted towards the checkerboard.     But if he were so much more stupid than he, Manet, why was it thattheir checker games always ended in a tie?  <doc-sep></s>","Ronald is Manet's first self-made friend. He constructs him using the parts he finds in the LIFO kit, and follows the manual to put him together properly. Their relationship seems jovial enough at first. They play chess together. Ronald eliminates the loneliness that Manet feels for a short time. Manet had purposely made Ronald to be cheerful, submissive and co-operative. Manet wanted Ronald to be as different to himself as he could be. Manet enjoys the fact that Ronald is not as intelligent as him. They talk about various wars, and Daniel Boone. After a while though, Manet becomes incensed by Ronalds endless, mindless droning about these same topics. Manet begins to fight Ronald, to which Ronald participates, only to please his creator. He is so fed up with Ronald eventually that he locks him in a room, and doesn't let him out. "
"<s>Pouring and tumbling through the Lifo kit, consulting the manualdiligently, Manet concluded that there weren't enough parts left in thebox to go around.     The book gave instructions for The Model Mother, The Model Father, TheModel Sibling and others. Yet there weren't parts enough in the kit.     He would have to take parts from Ronald or Veronica in order to makeany one of the others. And he could not do that without the Modifier.     He wished Trader Tom would return and extract some higher price fromhim for the Modifier, which was clearly missing from the kit.     Or to get even more for simply repossessing the kit.     But Trader Tom would not be back. He came this way only once.     Manet thumbed through the manual in mechanical frustration. As he didso, the solid piece of the last section parted sheet by sheet.     He glanced forward and found the headings:      The Final Model     .     There seemed something ominous about that finality. But he had paida price for the kit, hadn't he? Who knew what price, when it came tothat? He had every right to get everything out of the kit that hecould.     He read the unfolding page critically. The odd assortment ofill-matched parts left in the box took a new shape in his mind andunder his fingers....     Manet gave one final spurt from the flesh-sprayer and stood back.     Victor was finished. Perfect.     Manet stepped forward, lifted the model's left eyelid, tweaked his nose.     Move!     Victor leaped back into the Lifo kit and did a jig on one of theflesh-sprayers.     As the device twisted as handily as good intentions, Manet realizedthat it was not a flesh-sprayer but the Modifier.     It's finished! were Victor's first words. It's done!     Manet stared at the tiny wreck. To say the least.     Victor stepped out of the oblong box. There is something you shouldunderstand. I am different from the others.     They all say that.     I am not your friend.     No?     No. You have made yourself an enemy.     Manet felt nothing more at this information than an esthetic pleasureat the symmetry of the situation.     It completes the final course in socialization, Victor continued. Iam your adversary. I will do everything I can to defeat you. I have      all     your knowledge.      You     do not have all your knowledge. If you letyourself know some of the things, it could be used against you. It ismy function to use everything I possibly can against you.     When do you start?     I've finished. I've done my worst. I have destroyed the Modifier.     What's so bad about that? Manet asked with some interest.     You'll have Veronica and Ronald and me forever now. We'll neverchange. You'll get older, and we'll never change. You'll lose yourinterest in New York swing and jet combat and Daniel Boone, and we'llnever change. We don't change and you can't change us for others. I'vemade the worst thing happen to you that can happen to any man.      I'veseen that you will always keep your friends.       <doc-sep>Manet didn't open the box. He let it fade quietly in the filtered butstill brilliant sunlight near a transparent wall.     Manet puttered around the spawning monster, trying to brush the coppertaste of the station out of his mouth in the mornings, talking tohimself, winking at Annie Oakley, and waiting to go mad.     Finally, Manet woke up one morning. He lay in the sheets of his bunk,suppressing the urge to go wash his hands, and came at last to theconclusion that, after all the delay, he was mad.     So he went to open the box.     The cardboard lid seemed to have become both brittle and rotten. Itcrumbled as easily as ideals. But Manet was old enough to remember theboxes Japanese toys came in when he was a boy, and was not alarmed.     The contents were such a glorious pile of junk, of bottles from oldchemistry sets, of pieces from old Erector sets, of nameless things andunremembered antiques from neglected places, that it seemed too good tohave been assembled commercially. It was the collection of lifetime.     On top of everything was a paperbound book, the size of the      Reader'sDigest     , covered in rippled gray flexiboard. The title was stamped inblack on the spine and cover:      The Making of Friends     .     Manet opened the book and, turning one blank page, found the titlein larger print and slightly amplified:      The Making of Friends andOthers     . There was no author listed. A further line of informationstated: A Manual for Lifo, The Socialization Kit. At the bottom ofthe title page, the publisher was identified as: LIFO KIT CO., LTD.,SYRACUSE.     The unnumbered first chapter was headed      Your First Friend     .     Before you go further, first find the      Modifier     in your kit. Thisis      vital     .     He quickly riffled through the pages.      Other Friends, Authority, ACompanion     .... Then      The Final Model     . Manet tried to flip past thissection, but the pages after the sheet labeled      The Final Model     werestuck together. More than stuck. There was a thick slab of plastic inthe back of the book. The edges were ridged as if there were pages tothis section, but they could only be the tracks of lame ants.     Manet flipped back to page one.     First find the      Modifier     in your kit. This is      vital     to your entireexperiment in socialization. The      Modifier is Part #A-1     on the MasterChart.     He prowled through the box looking for some kind of a chart. Therewas nothing that looked like a chart inside. He retrieved the lid andlooked at its inside. Nothing. He tipped the box and looked at itsoutside. Not a thing. There was always something missing from kits.Maybe even the      Modifier     itself.     He read on, and probed and scattered the parts in the long box. Hestudied the manual intently and groped out with his free hand.     The toe bone was connected to the foot bone....       The Red King sat smugly in his diagonal corner.     The Black King stood two places away, his top half tipsy in frustration.     The Red King crabbed sideways one square.     The Black King pounced forward one space.     The Red King advanced backwards to face the enemy.     The Black King shuffled sideways.     The Red King followed....     Uselessly.     Tie game, Ronald said.     Tie game, Manet said.     Let's talk, Ronald said cheerfully. He was always cheerful.     Cheerfulness was a personality trait Manet had thumbed out for him.Cheerful. Submissive. Co-operative. Manet had selected these factors inorder to make Ronald as different a person from himself as possible.     The Korean-American War was the greatest of all wars, Ronald saidpontifically.     Only in the air, Manet corrected him.     Intelligence was one of the factors Manet had punched to suppress.Intelligence. Aggressiveness. Sense of perfection. Ronald couldn't knowany more than Manet, but he could (and did) know less. He had seen tothat when his own encephalograph matrix had programmed Ronald's feeder.     There were no dogfights in Korea, Ronald said.     I know.     The dogfight was a combat of hundreds of planes in a tight area, thelast of which took place near the end of the First World War. Theaerial duel, sometimes inaccurately referred to as a 'dogfight' was notseen in Korea either. The pilots at supersonic speeds only had time forsingle passes at the enemy. Still, I believe, contrary to all experts,that this took greater skill, man more wedded to machine, than theleisurely combats of World War One.     I know.     Daniel Boone was still a crack shot at eight-five. He was said to bewarm, sincere, modest, truthful, respected and rheumatic.     I know.  <doc-sep>The prospect      was     frightful.     Victor smiled. Aren't you going to denounce me for a fiend?     Yes, it is time for the denouncement. Tell me, you feel that now youare through? You have fulfilled your function?     Yes. Yes.     Now you will have but to lean back, as it were, so to speak, and seeme suffer?           Yes.          No. Can't do it, old man. Can't.      I     know. You're too human, toolike me. The one thing a man can't accept is a passive state, a stateof uselessness. Not if he can possibly avoid it. Something has to behappening to him. He has to be happening to something. You didn't killme because then you would have nothing left to do. You'll never killme.     Of course not! Victor stormed. Fundamental safety cut-off!     Rationalization. You don't      want     to kill me. And you can't stopchallenging me at every turn. That's your function.     Stop talking and just think about your miserable life, Victor saidmeanly. Your friends won't grow and mature with you. You won't makeany new friends. You'll have me to constantly remind you of youruselessness, your constant unrelenting sterility of purpose. How's thatfor boredom, for passiveness?     That's what I'm trying to tell you, Manet said irritably, his socialmanners rusty. I won't be bored. You will see to that. It's yourpurpose. You'll be a challenge, an obstacle, a source of triumph everyfoot of the way. Don't you see? With you for an enemy, I don't need afriend!   <doc-sep></s>","When Manet first looks into the LIFO kit, there are a number of strange objects inside. On the top of the box is a manual on how to create these new beings, designed for companionship. In the manual, it clearly states that it is of the utmost importance to first find the modifier in the kit. It could be seen in the first part of the master chart. The only problem was, the master chart is missing. Without the master chart, Manet has no way of knowing what the modifier looked like. He decides to create these companions without it regardless. It only becomes clear what the modifier is used for towards the end of the story. When Victor is created, he immediately leaps inside the box, smashing up something Manet thinks to be a flesh sprayer. When it is destroyed, Manet finally realises that it is in fact, the Modifier. Victor explains the modifier's purpose. The modifier is used to change the artificial beings. They are created based on the creator's likes and dislikes. But, as Manet matures, and he grows out of his initial preferences, he would have the modifier to change his companions to fit his new preferences. With this gone, he is stuck with the same Ronald, Veronica and Victor for the next eighteen years. "
"<s>Manet didn't open the box. He let it fade quietly in the filtered butstill brilliant sunlight near a transparent wall.     Manet puttered around the spawning monster, trying to brush the coppertaste of the station out of his mouth in the mornings, talking tohimself, winking at Annie Oakley, and waiting to go mad.     Finally, Manet woke up one morning. He lay in the sheets of his bunk,suppressing the urge to go wash his hands, and came at last to theconclusion that, after all the delay, he was mad.     So he went to open the box.     The cardboard lid seemed to have become both brittle and rotten. Itcrumbled as easily as ideals. But Manet was old enough to remember theboxes Japanese toys came in when he was a boy, and was not alarmed.     The contents were such a glorious pile of junk, of bottles from oldchemistry sets, of pieces from old Erector sets, of nameless things andunremembered antiques from neglected places, that it seemed too good tohave been assembled commercially. It was the collection of lifetime.     On top of everything was a paperbound book, the size of the      Reader'sDigest     , covered in rippled gray flexiboard. The title was stamped inblack on the spine and cover:      The Making of Friends     .     Manet opened the book and, turning one blank page, found the titlein larger print and slightly amplified:      The Making of Friends andOthers     . There was no author listed. A further line of informationstated: A Manual for Lifo, The Socialization Kit. At the bottom ofthe title page, the publisher was identified as: LIFO KIT CO., LTD.,SYRACUSE.     The unnumbered first chapter was headed      Your First Friend     .     Before you go further, first find the      Modifier     in your kit. Thisis      vital     .     He quickly riffled through the pages.      Other Friends, Authority, ACompanion     .... Then      The Final Model     . Manet tried to flip past thissection, but the pages after the sheet labeled      The Final Model     werestuck together. More than stuck. There was a thick slab of plastic inthe back of the book. The edges were ridged as if there were pages tothis section, but they could only be the tracks of lame ants.     Manet flipped back to page one.     First find the      Modifier     in your kit. This is      vital     to your entireexperiment in socialization. The      Modifier is Part #A-1     on the MasterChart.     He prowled through the box looking for some kind of a chart. Therewas nothing that looked like a chart inside. He retrieved the lid andlooked at its inside. Nothing. He tipped the box and looked at itsoutside. Not a thing. There was always something missing from kits.Maybe even the      Modifier     itself.     He read on, and probed and scattered the parts in the long box. Hestudied the manual intently and groped out with his free hand.     The toe bone was connected to the foot bone....       The Red King sat smugly in his diagonal corner.     The Black King stood two places away, his top half tipsy in frustration.     The Red King crabbed sideways one square.     The Black King pounced forward one space.     The Red King advanced backwards to face the enemy.     The Black King shuffled sideways.     The Red King followed....     Uselessly.     Tie game, Ronald said.     Tie game, Manet said.     Let's talk, Ronald said cheerfully. He was always cheerful.     Cheerfulness was a personality trait Manet had thumbed out for him.Cheerful. Submissive. Co-operative. Manet had selected these factors inorder to make Ronald as different a person from himself as possible.     The Korean-American War was the greatest of all wars, Ronald saidpontifically.     Only in the air, Manet corrected him.     Intelligence was one of the factors Manet had punched to suppress.Intelligence. Aggressiveness. Sense of perfection. Ronald couldn't knowany more than Manet, but he could (and did) know less. He had seen tothat when his own encephalograph matrix had programmed Ronald's feeder.     There were no dogfights in Korea, Ronald said.     I know.     The dogfight was a combat of hundreds of planes in a tight area, thelast of which took place near the end of the First World War. Theaerial duel, sometimes inaccurately referred to as a 'dogfight' was notseen in Korea either. The pilots at supersonic speeds only had time forsingle passes at the enemy. Still, I believe, contrary to all experts,that this took greater skill, man more wedded to machine, than theleisurely combats of World War One.     I know.     Daniel Boone was still a crack shot at eight-five. He was said to bewarm, sincere, modest, truthful, respected and rheumatic.     I know.  <doc-sep>   HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Every lonely man tries to make friends.     Manet just didn't know when to stop!      William Manet was alone.     In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one.     He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations.     But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it.     Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way.     Lately she was winking back at him.     Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity.     No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars.     Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human.     All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least.     The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization.     They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows.     The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential.     But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities.     It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy.  <doc-sep>Pouring and tumbling through the Lifo kit, consulting the manualdiligently, Manet concluded that there weren't enough parts left in thebox to go around.     The book gave instructions for The Model Mother, The Model Father, TheModel Sibling and others. Yet there weren't parts enough in the kit.     He would have to take parts from Ronald or Veronica in order to makeany one of the others. And he could not do that without the Modifier.     He wished Trader Tom would return and extract some higher price fromhim for the Modifier, which was clearly missing from the kit.     Or to get even more for simply repossessing the kit.     But Trader Tom would not be back. He came this way only once.     Manet thumbed through the manual in mechanical frustration. As he didso, the solid piece of the last section parted sheet by sheet.     He glanced forward and found the headings:      The Final Model     .     There seemed something ominous about that finality. But he had paida price for the kit, hadn't he? Who knew what price, when it came tothat? He had every right to get everything out of the kit that hecould.     He read the unfolding page critically. The odd assortment ofill-matched parts left in the box took a new shape in his mind andunder his fingers....     Manet gave one final spurt from the flesh-sprayer and stood back.     Victor was finished. Perfect.     Manet stepped forward, lifted the model's left eyelid, tweaked his nose.     Move!     Victor leaped back into the Lifo kit and did a jig on one of theflesh-sprayers.     As the device twisted as handily as good intentions, Manet realizedthat it was not a flesh-sprayer but the Modifier.     It's finished! were Victor's first words. It's done!     Manet stared at the tiny wreck. To say the least.     Victor stepped out of the oblong box. There is something you shouldunderstand. I am different from the others.     They all say that.     I am not your friend.     No?     No. You have made yourself an enemy.     Manet felt nothing more at this information than an esthetic pleasureat the symmetry of the situation.     It completes the final course in socialization, Victor continued. Iam your adversary. I will do everything I can to defeat you. I have      all     your knowledge.      You     do not have all your knowledge. If you letyourself know some of the things, it could be used against you. It ismy function to use everything I possibly can against you.     When do you start?     I've finished. I've done my worst. I have destroyed the Modifier.     What's so bad about that? Manet asked with some interest.     You'll have Veronica and Ronald and me forever now. We'll neverchange. You'll get older, and we'll never change. You'll lose yourinterest in New York swing and jet combat and Daniel Boone, and we'llnever change. We don't change and you can't change us for others. I'vemade the worst thing happen to you that can happen to any man.      I'veseen that you will always keep your friends.       <doc-sep></s>","When we first meet William Manet, he thinks it is inevitable that he will go insane, and even welcomes it. He would get fat and dirty and he would become animalistic and create a god complex for himself. He quickly slips into madness in his isolation, making notes for lectures to give to no one in particular, a picture of Annie Oakley, winking at him on more than one occasion. The idea of madness is also brought up in the illusive character of Trader Tom. It is not clear whether he or his spaceship are real at all, when it is said that Manet Thinks he sees the ship one day. There is no definitive answer as to how he gets onto the ship, or who or what Trader Tom works for. When Manet finishes the glass of whiskey, it becomes instantly clean, like he had never drank from it. His ship is also very strange, with a fireplace in it. We can later see Manet's madness in his violent outbursts. We first see him beat up Ronald, and then Veronica. His madness is truly shown when he exclaims that he should have started beating women much sooner. It is unclear throughout the whole story whether any of this took place in the real world, or whether it was all in Manet's head. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer    <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Maitland, a militant engineer specialized in atomic rocket motors, awakes one night to a strange sound in his room. He blacks out and awakes again, this time in a room that isn't his. He takes in his surroundings and notices a prairie and a river outside his window, and within his room a door to exit which he cannot open. As Maitland wonders helplessly, a man by the name of Swarts enters his room. Swarts tells Maitland that he is here to participate in a series of psychological tests, assuring him that he is not interested in any secret intelligence related to his career. Swarts leads Maitland to his laboratory, where a cot stands in the center of the room under a ceiling of electric cables. Maitland resists initially, wary of the extent Swarts would go to in order for him to comply; however, Swarts manages to get Maitland onto the cot by force. He then reveals his main objective, which is figuring out why Maitland has a passion and longing to go to the Moon. Later that evening, Maitland meets a girl, later referred to as Ingrid Ching, who silently brings him a meal. He stares outside his window, trying to piece together where he could be, when he notices the presence of Venus in the sky as an evening star and comes to the realization that he has traveled to the future. Bewildered, Maitland is eager to learn more about the advancements of society, namely the status of man's trip to space. He asks Ching, who refuses to answer, and is then brought back to Swarts' lab. Maitland, determined to have his questions answered, rebels against Swarts' following tests through mental resistance. Becoming frustrated, Swarts tells Maitland that they are in the year A.D 2634, and that Ching would answer remaining questions if he complied with the tests. Agreeing, Ching visits Maitland that evening, and indulges him in the history of the human race up to this point, including stories of the Afrikanders, who dominated technological advancements and ruled the global empire, and how the world eventually transformed into one race. Maitland asks Ching whether humans have been able to go to space yet, and she is perplexed. She tells him that though she doesn't think it would be impossible, it has not been done, and she wonders why such a thing would be desired. Ching explains that the world is no longer in an age of technology, but an age of understanding humans and cultures within their world. Maitland is defeated; he cannot comprehend how there is no interest in traveling to space, realizing that his lifelong goal has become unattainable. "
"<s>  He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer    <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom.     Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to.     For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.       This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!       This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push,      had     built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie.     Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.  <doc-sep></s>","The majority of the story takes place in the cell that Maitland is kept in by Swarts. The room is unconventional, according to Maitland, with no sharp edges, lines, or corners. Instead, the room is rounded, mostly made of smooth metal and plastic. There is no knob or latch on his door, and his window is made of a plastic so transparent it looks invisible. Because Maitland cannot leave his room, his observation of the outside is limited to what is through his window; the land outside is lush, with a rich prairie, an ocean, and a river. He has a view of the vast sky, and at night is able to see the stars. The other location that Maitland experiences in the story is Swarts' lab, which looks similar to an ordinary lab, with familiar electronics and machinery. "
"<s>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>  He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to     the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself     before....      DESIRE NO MORE     by Algis Budrys     (      illustrated by Milton Luros     )           Desire no more than to thy lot may fall....          —Chaucer    <doc-sep>   THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  <doc-sep></s>","Throughout the story, Maitland shows his passion and knowledge for space; it defines him as a character and helps him in figuring out certain aspects of his situation. Maitland's passion for space is first introduced when Swarts asks him about going to the Moon. Maitland is taken aback by this question, and Swarts knows that the idea is extremely important to him; in fact, Maitland's dream of going to the Moon is the whole reason why he is experiencing these tests. Later on, space is significant in helping Maitland come to a realization. As he stares out the window trying to gauge where in the world he is located, he notices that Venus, his favorite planet, is in the sky during the evening, when back at the Reservation, it was a morning star. Maitland's knowledge of constellations and planets leads him to realize that he must have traveled into the future. Once Maitland realizes this, his main question is about space travel, and whether humans have achieved it. Once he learns that it has not been attempted or achieved, Maitland's motivation is lost; space was the driving force in his life and career, and space travel not being possible left him hopeless."
"<s>I really haven't the time to waste talking irrelevancies, Swarts saida while later. Honestly. Maitland, I'm working against a time limit.If you'll cooperate, I'll tell Ching to answer your questions.'     Ching?     Ingrid Ching is the girl who has been bringing you your meals.     Maitland considered a moment, then nodded. Swarts lowered the projectorto his eyes again, and this time the engineer did not resist.     That evening, he could hardly wait for her to come. Too excited to sitand watch the sunset, he paced interminably about the room, sometimeswhistling nervously, snapping his fingers, sitting down and jitteringone leg. After a while he noticed that he was whistling the same themeover and over: a minute's thought identified it as that exuberantmounting phrase which recurs in the finale of Beethoven's NinthSymphony.     He forgot about it and went on whistling. He was picturing himselfaboard a ship dropping in toward Mars, making planetfall at SyrtisMajor; he was seeing visions of Venus and the awesome beauty of Saturn.In his mind, he circled the Moon, and viewed the Earth as a huge brightglobe against the constellations....     Finally the door slid aside and she appeared, carrying the usual trayof food. She smiled at him, making dimples in her golden skin andrevealing a perfect set of teeth, and put the tray on the table.     I think you are wonderful, she laughed. You get everything youwant, even from Swarts, and I have not been able to get even a littleof what I want from him. I want to travel in time, go back to your 20thCentury. And I wanted to talk with you, and he would not let me. Shelaughed again, hands on her rounded hips. I have never seen him soirritated as he was this noon.     Maitland urged her into the chair and sat down on the edge of the bed.Eagerly he asked, Why the devil do you want to go to the 20th Century?Believe me, I've been there, and what I've seen of this world looks alot better.     She shrugged. Swarts says that I want to go back to the Dark Age ofTechnology because I have not adapted well to modern culture. Myself,I think I have just a romantic nature. Far times and places look moreexciting....     How do you mean— Maitland wrinkled his brow—adapt to modernculture? Don't tell me      you're     from another time!     Oh, no! But my home is Aresund, a little fishing village at the headof a fiord in what you would call Norway. So far north, we are muchbehind the times. We live in the old way, from the sea, speak the oldtongue.  <doc-sep>   AMBITION     By WILLIAM L. BADE     Illustrated by L. WOROMAY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      To the men of the future, the scientific     goals of today were as incomprehensible     as the ancient quest for the Holy Grail!      There was a thump. Maitland stirred, came half awake, and opened hiseyes. The room was dark except where a broad shaft of moonlight fromthe open window fell on the foot of his bed. Outside, the residentialsection of the Reservation slept silently under the pale illuminationof the full Moon. He guessed sleepily that it was about three o'clock.     What had he heard? He had a definite impression that the sound had comefrom within the room. It had sounded like someone stumbling into achair, or—     Something moved in the darkness on the other side of the room. Maitlandstarted to sit up and it was as though a thousand volts had shorted hisbrain....     This time, he awoke more normally. He opened his eyes, looked throughthe window at a section of azure sky, listened to the singing of birdssomewhere outside. A beautiful day. In the middle of the process ofstretching his rested muscles, arms extended back, legs tensed, hefroze, looking up—for the first time really seeing the ceiling. Heturned his head, then rolled off the bed, wide awake.       This wasn't his room!       The lawn outside wasn't part of the Reservation! Where the labs andthe shops should have been, there was deep prairie grass, then a greenocean pushed into waves by the breeze stretching to the horizon. Thiswasn't the California desert! Down the hill, where the liquid oxygenplant ought to have been, a river wound across the scene, almost hiddenbeneath its leafy roof of huge ancient trees.     Shock contracted Maitland's diaphragm and spread through his body.His breathing quickened.      Now     he remembered what had happened duringthe night, the sound in the darkness, the dimly seen figure, andthen—what? Blackout....     Where was he? Who had brought him here? For what purpose?     He thought he knew the answer to the last of those questions. Asa member of the original atomic reaction-motor team, he possessedinformation that other military powers would very much like to obtain.It was absolutely incredible that anyone had managed to abduct him fromthe heavily guarded confines of the Reservation, yet someone had doneit. How?  <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom.     Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to.     For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.       This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!       This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push,      had     built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie.     Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.  <doc-sep></s>","Maitland and Ching hold no significant reservations about each other upon meeting; they had no more interaction than Ching bringing him meals and leaving. As the story progresses, and Ching is able to answer Maitland's questions about the world they are in, she shares a bit about herself. Trust is built between the two as Ching shares her knowledge of global history, and Maitland learns that like his passion for space travel, Ching has a passion for time travel, specifically back to the 20th century, where Maitland is from. Though Ching has to break the news to Maitland that space travel has not been done, she attempts to comfort him through explanations and consolation. While by the end of the story, Ching and Maitland are not exactly friends, they have both confided in each other and have learned a lot about the other."
"<s>After that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rathercommonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, anda bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A coupleof them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normalcomplement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ranacross the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in thecenter of the room.     Lie down, Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things willbe for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my resultsagainst your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't makeme.     What's the idea? Maitland asked. What is all this?     Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade ananswer, but to find the proper words. You can think of it as a liedetector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests Igive you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down.     Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensedmuscles. Make me.     If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. That was the first test,he said. Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot ifyou'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus.     Maitland shook his head stubbornly.     I see, Swarts said. You want to find out what you're up against.     He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to thesolar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was onthe cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps acrosshis chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening aclamp that held his head immovable.       Presently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples andto other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging tothe skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hungfrom the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly aroundhis left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black boxclamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joinedthe others.     So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skinpotential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses ofthe body to stimuli.     The question was, what were the stimuli to be?     Your name, said Swarts, is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-fouryears old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularlyas applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going toquestion you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town isMadison, Wisconsin....     You seem to know everything about me, Maitland said defiantly,looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. Why this recital?     I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing theequipment, calibrating it to your reactions. He went on, Yourfavorite recreations are chess and reading what you term sciencefiction. Maitland,      how would you like to go to the Moon     ?     Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, andhe tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. What doyou mean?     Swarts was chuckling. I really hit a semantic push-button there,didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wantsto go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out      why     .  <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself.     Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring.     It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated.     It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in.     You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do.     It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled.     It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed.     The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'.  <doc-sep>Swarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his plannedoffensive.     What year is this?     Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. You know what the date is, hestated.     No, I don't. Not since yesterday.     Come on, Swarts said patiently, let's get going. We have a lot toget through this morning.     I      know     this isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's anevening star.     Never mind that. Come.     Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to thelaboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attachthe instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts startedsaying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reactiontest—Maitland began the job of integrating csc  3  x dx in his head.It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequenttracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swartshad stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other manstanding over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled.     What year is this? Maitland asked in a conversational tone.     We'll try another series of tests.     It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. Helowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacksof a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses atthe ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer'seyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes.     These will keep you from holding your eyes shut, he said. You canblink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids downagainst the tension.     He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears—     And then the show began.     He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there werefootsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with atwelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, Now I've got you, youwife-stealer! He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokelesspowder—then blackness.     With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried toslow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was thecountermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around themdeclared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up.     Now he was looking at a girl. She....     Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it.     He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one dayafter school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who hadall the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but nomore. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness ofSwarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about thisnew world.     Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightenedagainst the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on hisforehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated....     The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot andswollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps.     The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from hiseyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore athim for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head wasstarting to ache from the effort of blinking.     What year is this? he asked.     All right, Swarts said. A.D. 2634.     Maitland's smile became a grin.  <doc-sep></s>","Swarts uses different technology for his various tests. In the first, he uses electrodes and cables placed in various spots on Maitland's body, meant to record how Maitland responds and reacts to various stimuli. These include heart monitors, blood pressure recorders, and measurements of brain activity. Swarts uses similar technology in the next test to record Maitland's reactions, with a few additions. Firstly, he introduces gadgets attached to Maitland's eyelashes that keep him from closing his eyes. He also attaches lenses and a projector to Maitland's eyes to display different scenes to him."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen.     He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman.     Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite!     Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all.     Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick.     Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change.     Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio?     Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly.     I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio.     Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it.     Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs.     He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk—     Rice said it, slow:     Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here.     Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere....     Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw.     Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next:     Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever.     We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later.     Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus.     Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo?     Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice.     Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches.     Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up—      now!       <doc-sep>  Morgue Ship     By RAY BRADBURY     This was Burnett's last trip. Three more     shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and     he would be among the living again.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed.     There was another dead man aboard the      Constellation     .     Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm.     Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void.     He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial.     Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett.     Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore.     Rice said:     Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk!     Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict.     Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again.     Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action.     This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why!     Sam!     Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins.     Sam! On the double! Up the rungs!     Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it.  <doc-sep></s>","Sam Burnett hears the familiar sounds that indicate another dead body has been retrieved and collected onto the Morgue ship where he works. Burnett is a coroner that works to retrieve dead bodies from space lost in war and bring them back to Earth. He thinks of how his job has emotionally drained him. Rice interrupts his thoughts and yells for Sam to meet with him. Sam climbs up to the control room of the rocket. When he meets Rice, he realizes that the recovered body is an enemy official. Sam is suspicious of the condition of the body when Rice excitedly exclaims that it is the body of Lethla, Kriere’s majordomo. Burnett is indifferent to the revelation. Yet, Rice is excited for the possibility of a high enemy official being dead and the possibility of the war coming to an end; Sam is still jaded. Lethla moves and they realize that he is not dead.  Lethla was able to survive in the void of space with the usage of a well-hidden face mask made of glassite. Lethla threatens the two to not make any moves and communicates his intent to control the ship. Rice tells Lethla to leave because it is against Interplanetary law to mess with a morgue ship. Lethla rebuffs that defense. All the while, Sam is observing the two interact. Lethla lets the two know that Kriere is still alive and is also wearing the same mask that Lethla had worn. He explains that they were attacked near Mars while they were on their way to Venus. They were running out of supplies and decided to trick the morgue ship to continue their trip to Venus. After Lethla explains why and how he got to the morgue ship, he commands them to go pick up Kriere. Sam smiles and complies with Lethla’s orders. Sam thinks over his options and considers getting Lethla and Kriere to Venus so that he can peacefully return to Earth. They spot Kriere in space floating as if he is dead. Sam continues thinking about his options to overpower both Kriere and Lethla and experiences some fear over the possible success of his plan. He begins to sweat nervously but becomes more confident as he puts the plan into action. Sam activates the ship’s claw mechanism to pick up Kriere’s body. As Lethla watches him he mentions a saying about how the ship is meant for dead men and then unexpectedly begins to crush Kriere’s body with the claw, killing Kriere. Lethla is caught off guard but manages to fire his gun at Sam before Rice attacks him. Lethla screams in horror for a time while Burnett uncontrollably laughs. Rice expresses how he doesn’t believe Sam should have killed Kriere. Sam argues that it didn’t matter as long as it was his last trip somehow. Sam dies and becomes the 100 body on the ship, filling it and allowing the ship to return back to Earth fulfilling Sam’s last desire. "
"<s>  Morgue Ship     By RAY BRADBURY     This was Burnett's last trip. Three more     shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and     he would be among the living again.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed.     There was another dead man aboard the      Constellation     .     Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm.     Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void.     He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial.     Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett.     Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore.     Rice said:     Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk!     Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict.     Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again.     Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action.     This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why!     Sam!     Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins.     Sam! On the double! Up the rungs!     Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it.  <doc-sep>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this!     Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas.     Maybe it was because the body looked a little      too     dead.     Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle.     Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well?     Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is?     Burnett scowled uneasily and said no.     It's Lethla! Rice retorted.     Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright?     Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him!     Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse.     Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too!     Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine.     As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one.     But Lethla! His body must mean something!     And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him?     We'll radio for help?     Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice.     Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett!     Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone—     Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat.     This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel!     Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time.     Lethla was alive.     He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to.     Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star.     Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face.     Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible!     A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head.      Younever catch up with the war!       But what if the war catches up with you?     What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship?  <doc-sep>And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly, allaround Kriere, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence. Therewas blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was thehead, which was carefully preserved for identification.     That was the only way to draw Lethla off guard.     Burnett spun about and leaped.     The horror on Lethla's face didn't go away as he fired his gun.     Rice came in fighting, too, but not before something like a red-hotramrod stabbed Sam Burnett, catching him in the ribs, spinning him backlike a drunken idiot to fall in a corner.     Fists made blunt flesh noises. Lethla went down, weaponless andscreaming. Rice kicked. After awhile Lethla quit screaming, and theroom swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight andstarted laughing.     He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes. He heard the retrieverclaws come inside, and the star-port grind shut.     Out of the red darkness, Rice's voice came and then he could see Rice'syoung face over him. Burnett groaned.     Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have, Sam.     To hell with it. Burnett winced, and fought to keep his eyes open.Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my lasttrip and I meant it. One way or the other, I'd have quit!     This is the hard way—     Maybe. I dunno. Kind of nice to think of all those kids who'll neverhave to come aboard the      Constellation     , though, Rice. His voicetrailed off. You watch the shelves fill up and you never know who'llbe next. Who'd have thought, four days ago—     Something happened to his tongue so it felt like hard ice blocking hismouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only time to get a few ofthem out:     Rice?     Yeah, Sam?     We haven't got a full cargo, boy.     Full enough for me, sir.     But still not full. If we went back to Center Base without fillingthe shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look there—number ninety-eight isLethla—number ninety-nine is Kriere. Three thousand days of rollingthis rocket, and not once come back without a bunch of the kids whowant to sleep easy on the good green earth. Not right to be going backany way—but—the way—we used to—     His voice got all full of fog. As thick as the fists of a dozenwarriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, andBurnett was lying down, not moving, but somehow Rice was going away amillion miles.     Ain't I one hell of a patriot, Rice?     Then everything got dark except Rice's face. And that was starting todissolve.     Ninety-eight: Lethla. Ninety-nine: Kriere.     He could still see Rice standing over him for a long time, breathingout and in. Down under the tables the blood-pumps pulsed and pulsed,thick and slow. Rice looked down at Burnett and then at the empty shelfat the far end of the room, and then back at Burnett again.     And then he said softly:           One hundred.        <doc-sep></s>","Sam Burnett is a coroner on the morgue ship Constellation. His job is to go to space and pick up 100 dead warriors and then return to Earth for them to be given a proper burial. When the ship has filled its capacity it returns specifically to New York. Sam has been working at this job for the past ten years. He uses a machine with metal claws to pick the dead bodies from space and then bring them in through the star-port grind. After the bodies are brought onto the ship, if they are not enemy warriors, the bodies are prepared for return to Earth. The bodies are prepared by Sam in a drainage-preservative lab. "
"<s>  Morgue Ship     By RAY BRADBURY     This was Burnett's last trip. Three more     shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and     he would be among the living again.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed.     There was another dead man aboard the      Constellation     .     Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm.     Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void.     He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial.     Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett.     Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore.     Rice said:     Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk!     Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict.     Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again.     Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action.     This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why!     Sam!     Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins.     Sam! On the double! Up the rungs!     Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it.  <doc-sep>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this!     Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas.     Maybe it was because the body looked a little      too     dead.     Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle.     Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well?     Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is?     Burnett scowled uneasily and said no.     It's Lethla! Rice retorted.     Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright?     Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him!     Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse.     Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too!     Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine.     As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one.     But Lethla! His body must mean something!     And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him?     We'll radio for help?     Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice.     Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett!     Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone—     Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat.     This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel!     Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time.     Lethla was alive.     He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to.     Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star.     Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face.     Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible!     A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head.      Younever catch up with the war!       But what if the war catches up with you?     What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship?  <doc-sep>And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly, allaround Kriere, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence. Therewas blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was thehead, which was carefully preserved for identification.     That was the only way to draw Lethla off guard.     Burnett spun about and leaped.     The horror on Lethla's face didn't go away as he fired his gun.     Rice came in fighting, too, but not before something like a red-hotramrod stabbed Sam Burnett, catching him in the ribs, spinning him backlike a drunken idiot to fall in a corner.     Fists made blunt flesh noises. Lethla went down, weaponless andscreaming. Rice kicked. After awhile Lethla quit screaming, and theroom swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight andstarted laughing.     He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes. He heard the retrieverclaws come inside, and the star-port grind shut.     Out of the red darkness, Rice's voice came and then he could see Rice'syoung face over him. Burnett groaned.     Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have, Sam.     To hell with it. Burnett winced, and fought to keep his eyes open.Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my lasttrip and I meant it. One way or the other, I'd have quit!     This is the hard way—     Maybe. I dunno. Kind of nice to think of all those kids who'll neverhave to come aboard the      Constellation     , though, Rice. His voicetrailed off. You watch the shelves fill up and you never know who'llbe next. Who'd have thought, four days ago—     Something happened to his tongue so it felt like hard ice blocking hismouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only time to get a few ofthem out:     Rice?     Yeah, Sam?     We haven't got a full cargo, boy.     Full enough for me, sir.     But still not full. If we went back to Center Base without fillingthe shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look there—number ninety-eight isLethla—number ninety-nine is Kriere. Three thousand days of rollingthis rocket, and not once come back without a bunch of the kids whowant to sleep easy on the good green earth. Not right to be going backany way—but—the way—we used to—     His voice got all full of fog. As thick as the fists of a dozenwarriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, andBurnett was lying down, not moving, but somehow Rice was going away amillion miles.     Ain't I one hell of a patriot, Rice?     Then everything got dark except Rice's face. And that was starting todissolve.     Ninety-eight: Lethla. Ninety-nine: Kriere.     He could still see Rice standing over him for a long time, breathingout and in. Down under the tables the blood-pumps pulsed and pulsed,thick and slow. Rice looked down at Burnett and then at the empty shelfat the far end of the room, and then back at Burnett again.     And then he said softly:           One hundred.        <doc-sep></s>","Sam Burnett is very jaded by his job. He has spent years returning dead bodies to Earth, lost in a seemingly endless war. He suggests that he began the job with less of a sullen view, but that opinion is forever lost. He no longer has the emotional capacity to acknowledge the individual lives of each lost warrior. Sam feels as if his job is rotting him from the inside and starving him from real life and action. He has no energy or excitement in his actions anymore because of his job causing him to complete it in an almost mechanical way. He becomes numb to the bodies; seeing them and preparing them to be stored is just a regular part of his routine. All Sam wants to do is return back to Earth, dead or alive. "
"<s>  Morgue Ship     By RAY BRADBURY     This was Burnett's last trip. Three more     shelves to fill with space-slain warriors—and     he would be among the living again.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He heard the star-port grind open, and the movement of the metal clawsgroping into space, and then the star-port closed.     There was another dead man aboard the      Constellation     .     Sam Burnett shook his long head, trying to think clearly. Pallid andquiet, three bodies lay on the cold transparent tables around him;machines stirred, revolved, hummed. He didn't see them. He didn't seeanything but a red haze over his mind. It blotted out the far wall ofthe laboratory where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet,keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm.     Burnett didn't move. He stood there in his rumpled white surgicalgown, staring at his fingers gloved in bone-white rubber; feeling alltight and wild inside himself. It went on for days. Moving the ship.Opening the star-port. Extending the retriever claw. Plucking some poorwarrior's body out of the void.     He didn't like it any more. Ten years is too long to go back andforth from Earth to nowhere. You came out empty and you went backfull-cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke,who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for adecent burial.     Number ninety-eight. Coming matter of fact and slow, Rice's voicefrom the ceiling radio hit Burnett.     Number ninety-eight, Burnett repeated. Working on ninety-five,ninety-six and ninety-seven now. Blood-pumps, preservative, slightsurgery. Off a million miles away his voice was talking. It soundeddeep. It didn't belong to him anymore.     Rice said:     Boyohbody! Two more pick-ups and back to New York. Me for a ten-daydrunk!     Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge, red, soft hands, slapped theminto a floor incinerator mouth. Back to Earth. Then spin around andshoot right out again in the trail of the war-rockets that blasted oneanother in galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships,salvaging any bodies still intact after the conflict.     Two men. Rice and himself. Sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundredother men who had forgotten, quite suddenly, however, to talk again.     Ten years of it. Every hour of those ten years eating like maggotsinside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under thehusk of his starved eyes and starved limbs. Starved for life. Starvedfor action.     This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why!     Sam!     Burnett jerked. Rice's voice clipped through the drainage-preservativelab, bounded against glassite retorts, echoed from the refrigeratorshelves. Burnett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap tolife, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins.     Sam! On the double! Up the rungs!     Burnett closed his eyes and said a couple of words, firmly. Nothing wasworth running for any more. Another body. There had been one hundredthousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with bloodcooling in it.  <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen.     He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman.     Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite!     Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all.     Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick.     Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change.     Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio?     Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly.     I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio.     Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it.     Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs.     He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk—     Rice said it, slow:     Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here.     Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere....     Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw.     Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next:     Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever.     We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later.     Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus.     Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo?     Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice.     Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches.     Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up—      now!       <doc-sep>The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evidentinterest. He turned it over and studied the printing. United States ofAmerica, he read aloud. What are those?     It's the name of the country I come from, Jeff said carefully.I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come furtherthan I thought. What's the name of this place?     This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, youmust come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't knowabout this country. His eyes narrowed. Where'd you learn to speakFederal, if you come from so far?     Jeff said helplessly, I can't explain, if you don't know about theUnited States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place wherethey know about foreign exchange?     The policeman scowled. How'd you get into this country, anyway? Yougot immigrate clearance?     An angry muttering started among the bystanders.     The policeman made up his mind. You come with me.     At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the highcounter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some menwhom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over tolisten.     I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage orlunate, the policeman said as he finished.     His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.     Jeff sighed. I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me insomething he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language Ido—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belongin the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'mso far in the future that the United States has been forgotten.     There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.     The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff andgot answers which probably seemed stupid to him.     The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. Come out, what are youadvertising? they kept asking. Who got you up to this?     The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in hiswallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a Work License, whichJeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was gravedoubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.     In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night.Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisonedand alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay downin the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then hehesitated.     In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that latelyhe had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at thebig red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrowbrought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.      IV     He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see alittle man with a briefcase at his cell door.     Wish joy, Mr. Elliott, the man said coolly. I am one of Mr. Bullen'sbarmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release,if you are ready to be reasonable.     Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. I doubt if I'mready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?     No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a manclaiming to be a time traveler, we knew.     All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullenisn't getting me out of here.     The lawyer smiled and sat down. Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you'vegone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics tounderstand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a moviefilm. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, ifa movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect tofind a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?     You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the CivilWar was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?     If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easilydone—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln orthat war.     Jeff looked blank. What are they doing then?     The little man spread his hands. What are the people doing now atSixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the dayof the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't yougrasp the difference between the two?     Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can youspeak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?     Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lakein the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking forlandmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountainpeak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?     So far. Keep talking.  <doc-sep></s>","The story begins on the morgue ship named Constellation. Sam Burnett is mentally exhausted standing in his white gown in the laboratory room of the ship. In the laboratory there are many shelves stacked upon each other, each numbered with a scarlet color. The shelves are meant to hold the 100 dead bodies that the ship is capable of storing. Once the shelves are filled, the ship is able to return back to New York. The lab is meant for performing the work of draining and preserving the dead bodies for them to then be stored. Sam leaves the laboratory at the request of Rice’s calls. After they realize that Lethla is alive, Lethla orders the two to go find Kriere. They head to the control room full of levers and audio and visual plates where Sam begins to maneuver the ship. It is in the control room that Sam dies on the ship. "
"<s>Sam! Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder.Red and warm, Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemyofficial. Take a look at this!     Burnett caught his breath. His eyes narrowed. There was something wrongwith the body; his experienced glance knew that. He didn't know what itwas.     Maybe it was because the body looked a little      too     dead.     Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way,stood quietly in the grey-metal air-lock. The enemy official was asdelicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids, closed, were faintlyblue. The hair was thin silken strands of pale gold, waved and pressedclose to a veined skull. Where the thin-lipped mouth fell open acluster of needle-tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosedcompletely in milk-pale syntha-silk, a holstered gun at the middle.     Burnett rubbed his jaw. Well?     Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp-cut face, hot andblack. Good Lord, Sam, do you know who this is?     Burnett scowled uneasily and said no.     It's Lethla! Rice retorted.     Burnett said, Lethla? And then: Oh, yes! Kriere's majordomo. Thatright?     Don't say it calm, Sam. Say it big. Say it big! If Lethla is here inspace, then Kriere's not far away from him!     Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war. What the hell.What the hell. He was tired. Talk about bodies and rulers to someoneelse.     Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam. Think!Kriere—The All-Mighty—in our territory. His right hand man dead. Thatmeans Kriere was in an accident, too!     Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since theVenus-Earth mess started. It's been see-sawing back and forth since theday you played hookey in the tenth grade, and I've been in the thickof it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowlingthrough the void picking up warriors and taking them back to the goodgreen Earth. Grisly, yes, but it's routine.     As for Kriere—if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precautionis taken to protect that one.     But Lethla! His body must mean something!     And if it does? Have we got guns aboard this morgue-ship? Are we abattle-cuiser to go against him?     We'll radio for help?     Yeah? If there's a warship within our radio range, seven hundredthousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle hasswept out past Earth in a new war concerning Io. That's out, Rice.     Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnett's six-foot-one. Jawhard and determined, he stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. Hisfingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted,You're one hell of a patriot, Sam Burnett!     Burnett reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice'sbarrel-chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights anddays and see how patriotic you feel. All those fine muscled ladsbloated and crushed by space pressures and heat-blasts. Fine lads whostart out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone—     Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes.He stood there, smelling the death-odor in the hot air of the ship,hearing the chug-chug-chug of the blood pumps down below, and his ownheart waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat.     This is my last cargo, Rice. I can't take it any longer. And I don'tcare much how I go back to earth. This Venusian here—what's his name?Lethla. He's number ninety-eight. Shove me into shelf ninety-ninebeside him and get the hell home. That's how I feel!     Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time.     Lethla was alive.     He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream.He didn't say anything. The heat-blast in his white fingers did all thenecessary talking. It didn't say anything either, but Burnett knew whatlanguage it would use if it had to.     Burnett swallowed hard. The body had looked funny. Too dead. Now heknew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like apale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in itlike a dead cold star.     Rice sucked in his breath. Burnett forced himself to take it easy. Fromthe corners of his eyes he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight,biting lines into his sharp face.     Rice got it out, finally. How'd you do it? he demanded, bitterly.How'd you live in the void? It's impossible!     A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnett's head.      Younever catch up with the war!       But what if the war catches up with you?     What in hell would Lethla be wanting aboard a morgue ship?  <doc-sep>Shaking his head, he walked unsteadily toward the rungs that gleamedup into the air-lock, control-room sector of the rocket. He climbedwithout making any noise on the rungs.     He kept thinking the one thing he couldn't forget.       You never catch up with the war.       All the color is ahead of you. The drive of orange rocket traces acrossstars, the whamming of steel-nosed bombs into elusive targets, thetitanic explosions and breathless pursuits, the flags and the excitedglory are always a million miles ahead.     He bit his teeth together.       You never catch up with the war.       You come along when space has settled back, when the vacuum has stoppedtrembling from unleashed forces between worlds. You come along in thedark quiet of death to find the wreckage plunging with all the fury ofits original acceleration in no particular direction. You can only seeit; you don't hear anything in space but your own heart kicking yourribs.     You see bodies, each in its own terrific orbit, given impetus bygrinding collisions, tossed from mother ships and dancing head overfeet forever and forever with no goal. Bits of flesh in ruptured spacesuits, mouths open for air that had never been there in a hundredbillion centuries. And they kept dancing without music until youextended the retriever-claw and culled them into the air-lock.     That was all the war-glory he got. Nothing but the stunned, shiveringsilence, the memory of rockets long gone, and the shelves filling upall too quickly with men who had once loved laughing.     You wondered who all the men were; and who the next ones would be.After ten years you made yourself blind to them. You went around doingyour job with mechanical hands.     But even a machine breaks down....  <doc-sep>It isn't so much our defense that worries me, my mother muttered, aslack of adequate medical machinery. War is bound to mean casualtiesand there aren't enough cure-alls on the planet to take care of them.It's useless to expect the government to build more right now; they'llbe too busy producing weapons. Sylvia, you'd better take a leave ofabsence from your job and come down to Psycho Center to learn first-aidtechniques. And you too, Kevin, she added, obviously a littlesurprised herself at what she was saying. Probably you'd be evenbetter at it than Sylvia since you aren't sensitive to other people'spain.     I looked at her.     It      is     an ill wind, she agreed, smiling wryly, but don't let mecatch you thinking that way, Kevin. Can't you see it would be betterthat there should be no war and you should remain useless?     I couldn't see it, of course, and she knew that, with her wretchedtalent for stripping away my feeble attempts at privacy. Psi-powersusually included some ability to form a mental shield; being withoutone, I was necessarily devoid of the other.     My attitude didn't matter, though, because it was definitely war. Thealiens came back with a fleet clearly bent on our annihilation—eventhe 'paths couldn't figure out their motives, for the thought patternwas entirely different from ours—and the war was on.     I had enjoyed learning first-aid; it was the first time I had everworked with people as an equal. And I was good at it because psi-powersaren't much of an advantage there. Telekinesis maybe a little, butI was big enough to lift anybody without needing any superhumanabilities—normal human abilities, rather.     Gee, Mr. Faraday, one of the other students breathed, you're sostrong. And without 'kinesis or anything.     I looked at her and liked what I saw. She was blonde and pretty. Myname's not Mr. Faraday, I said. It's Kevin.     My name's Lucy, she giggled.     No girl had ever giggled at me in that way before. Immediately Istarted to envision a beautiful future for the two of us, then flushedwhen I realized that she might be a telepath. But she was winding atourniquet around the arm of another member of the class with apparentunconcern.     Hey, quit that! the windee yelled. You're making it too tight! I'llbe mortified!     So Lucy was obviously not a telepath. Later I found out she was onlya low-grade telesensitive—just a poetess—so I had nothing to worryabout as far as having my thoughts read went. I was a little afraid ofSylvia's kidding me about my first romance, but, as it happened, shegot interested in one of the guys who was taking the class with us, andshe was not only too busy to be bothered with me, but in too vulnerablea position herself.     However, when the actual bombs—or their alien equivalent—struck nearour town, I wasn't nearly so happy, especially after they startedcarrying the wounded into the Psycho Center, which had been turned intoa hospital for the duration. I took one look at the gory scene—I hadnever seen anybody really injured before; few people had, as a matterof fact—and started for the door. But Mother was already blocking theway. It was easy to see from which side of the family Tim had got histalent for prognostication.     If the telepaths who can pick up all the pain can stand this, Kevin,she said,       you     certainly can. And there was no kindness at all inthe      you     .     She gave me a shove toward the nearest stretcher. Go on—now's yourchance to show you're of some use in this world.  <doc-sep></s>","At the beginning of the story, Sam Burnett makes note of the phrase to dictate the endless feeling that he associates with the conflict. He suggests that there is always going to be more bodies no matter how long or how many he retrieves. Even as victory may seem near, there is always another obstacle to face and the war never truly ends. During the middle of the story, Burnett questions whether it is possible for war to catch up on someone. He and Rice work on a non-combative ship and yet have found themselves thrust into a pivotal moment in the conflict that should theoretically not have ever involved them. Sam sticks to his conviction that one can still not catch up with war. While Sam is taking the ship towards Kriere, he thinks about whether he should fully comply with Lethla and Kriere or not to comply with their orders. He realizes that the situation as convoluted as it was, meant that he had unintentionally caught up with the war. That it was a rare and singular opportunity. While one may not be able to purposefully catch up with war, because war is unable to be controlled or predicted, it is possible for one’s path to cross with war. That presents an opportunity to greatly influence the war. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself.     Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring.     It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated.     It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in.     You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do.     It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled.     It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed.     The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'.  <doc-sep>   LEX     By W. T. HAGGERT     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine August 1959.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Nothing in the world could be happier and       mere serene than a man who loves his work—but       what happens when it loves him back?        Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him.     The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three.     He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen.     There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size.     Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side.     It wasn't.  <doc-sep></s>","Peter Manners is awaiting his job interview at Lex Industries. He is very nervous but also has to worry about still being unemployed with barely any money saved. Since he is fifteen minutes early, he decides to look around the manufacturing plant. Peter then goes to his interview, and a voice from a loudspeaker directs him down to the hall where Mr. Lexington is waiting. He goes in through the multiple doors, where Mr. Lexington greets him roughly and looks over his qualifications. The other man begins asking Peter questions, to which Peter responds but is confused about how they have any relation to his job application. Mr. Lexington tells Peter that he has been stockpiled at his last company, given skills that will only ever help that specific company and nowhere else. Mr. Lexington then tells Peter that he had just proven that he has fewer skills than when he was in school, but he is pleased by Peter’s performance in the interview so far nonetheless. He tells Peter that he is the only person in the building and makes Peter follow him. They go through the machinery, and they reach the inside of a loading truck. Mr. Lexington explains that this area is where raw materials are delivered and that he has small machines, part of a bigger machine, all working together to operate the factory. They go to the office section of the building, where there is a small typewriter working. A central control mechanism operates everything, and Mr. Lexington does not even have to deal with much mail at all each week. Mr. Lexington explains his own history working as an engineer and how he spent most of his time developing his machinery. Peter is amazed by all of the machinery, and he continues to discuss machine parts such as the kicker button with Mr. Lexington. Just as they keep talking, the door opens, and a self-propelled cart asks if he would like cream and sugar with his coffee. Mr. Lexington is angry about the cup, and he insults them as being impractical. He also further clarifies that Lex Industries is named after his wife Alexis’ nickname. The company continues to earn a lot of money, and he also does not need to monitor progress constantly. Mr. Lexington also mentions that when he was extremely pleased with progress one day, he went to the kicker button and found it removed. He asked the machine what was going on, and the machine sent him a long message detailing how it was aware of when he was pleased with the progress made and had relieved him of the burden of having to press it every time."
"<s>Staring back at the last blank wall, Peter suddenly remembered the timehe had set out to kill. He looked at his watch and gasped. At a run,set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. The door hadopened by itself. He stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, buta soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: Mr.Manners?     What? he panted. Who—?     You      are     Mr. Manners? the voice asked.     He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was amicrophone around; but the soft voice said: Follow the open doors downthe hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you.     Thanks, Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung openfor him.     He went through it with his composure slipping still further from hisgrip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept openingbefore and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last ofhis calm was blasted away by a bellow from within.     Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away!     Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stoppedjust short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another,all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for aninterview—and it's not your fault—this whole setup is geared tounnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal.     He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath,straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applyingfor a position should.     Mr. Lexington? he said. I'm Peter Manners. The Association—     Sit down, said the man at the desk. Let's look you over.     He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair infront of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable.He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension.     The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout witha high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk andmassive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framedpaintings—by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls withflowers!—made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridorinto Hollywood's idea of an office.     His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were dauntedfor another instant. This was a citadel of a man—great girders offrame supporting buttresses of muscle—with a vaulting head anddrawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it.     But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an ageto the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, thecomplexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, andthis was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble.     What can you do? asked Lexington abruptly.  <doc-sep>The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald?     I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day.     And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation.     The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms!     I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up.     I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really      exploit     a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either.     The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate.     Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging.     The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right.  <doc-sep>Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough.     It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—     Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory.     Then you admit—     It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit.     Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.     I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more—     Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission.     This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself—     —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite—     Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter—     You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said.     You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped.     Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down.     Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.     Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.     Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over?  <doc-sep></s>","Mr. Lexington is the owner of Lex Industries. He is the only person in the manufacturing plant. He is an eccentric but genius man who is surrounded by his machinery. Lexington started his business twenty years ago, and he never went through university despite having many interests. He gave up arts and biology, later re-entering through engineering. He also went through many stages, including commerce, accounting, and even working for a competitor. Lexington is especially interested in machine parts, which led him to begin firing employees and replacing them with automatic machines. His wife died in a car accident earlier, so he focused all of his attention on the machinery. By creating the central control system, he could give up his old company and build this new one. Although he is very rough towards Peter, he is also somewhat sympathetic to Peter’s past experiences and skills. He is very proud of his machinery and does not hesitate to show all of it to Peter."
"<s>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself.     Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring.     It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated.     It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in.     You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do.     It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled.     It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed.     The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'.  <doc-sep>   LEX     By W. T. HAGGERT     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine August 1959.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Nothing in the world could be happier and       mere serene than a man who loves his work—but       what happens when it loves him back?        Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him.     The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three.     He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen.     There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size.     Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side.     It wasn't.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","The story is set at Lex Industries. The manufacturing plant has no employee doors, and there are no windows on the side and rear of the building. Peter goes through the many doors to reach the office. The office has a huge desk, a chair behind the desk, and a chair in front of it. The office also is also carpeted by a sound-deadening rug, massive leather chairs, framed paintings, expensive drapes, and even a glass-brick mantel fireplace. The plant is filled with machinery of all kinds, and there are factory lights that constantly shine on the machines that do work. There are many types of machines too, such as ones that look like a pair of hands and even a typewriter. "
"<s>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself.     Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring.     It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated.     It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in.     You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do.     It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled.     It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed.     The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'.  <doc-sep>   LEX     By W. T. HAGGERT     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine August 1959.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Nothing in the world could be happier and       mere serene than a man who loves his work—but       what happens when it loves him back?        Keep your nerve, Peter Manners told himself; it's only a job. But nervehas to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zeroand eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed.Clay, at the Association of Professional Engineers, who had set up theappointment, hadn't eased Peter's nervousness by admitting, I don'tknow what in hell he's looking for. He's turned down every man we'vesent him.     The interview was at three. Fifteen minutes to go. Coming early wouldbetray overeagerness. Peter stood in front of the Lex Industries plantand studied it to kill time. Plain, featureless concrete walls, notlarge for a manufacturing plant—it took a scant minute to exhaust itssightseeing potential. If he walked around the building, he could, ifhe ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three.     He turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was aboutthe building that seemed so puzzling. It could not have been plainer,more ordinary. It was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain andordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen.     There had been windows at the front. There were none at the side, andnone at the rear. Then how were the working areas lit? He looked forthe electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners.They jolted him. The distribution transformers were ten times as largeas they should have been for a plant this size.     Something else was wrong. Peter looked for minutes before he found outwhat it was. Factories usually have large side doorways for employeeschanging shifts. This building had one small office entrance facing thestreet, and the only other door was at the loading bay—big enough tohandle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. Without anystairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. Maybe theemployees' entrance was on the third side.     It wasn't.  <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed.     He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship.     Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head.     One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum.     He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.     What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again.     Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive.     A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened?     Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years.     Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't....     Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner      Stardust     toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat....     Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home?     He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man.     Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.   <doc-sep></s>",The machinery is what keeps Lex Industries running and for Mr. Lexington to earn astronomical amounts of money continuously. It replaces the need for human workers and saves much of the costs that would have had to be distributed to workers. It is also the lifeline of Mr. Lexington’s work and the breakthrough of his research career. Peter considers the machinery to be ideas that are planned for ten to twenty years into the future. This makes the machinery even more impressive. The fact that an entire business can be operated with the central control system makes it even more significant in helping Mr. Lexington get ahead of his competitors.
"<s>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself.     Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring.     It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated.     It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in.     You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do.     It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled.     It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed.     The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'.  <doc-sep>Staring back at the last blank wall, Peter suddenly remembered the timehe had set out to kill. He looked at his watch and gasped. At a run,set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. The door hadopened by itself. He stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, buta soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: Mr.Manners?     What? he panted. Who—?     You      are     Mr. Manners? the voice asked.     He nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was amicrophone around; but the soft voice said: Follow the open doors downthe hall. Mr. Lexington is expecting you.     Thanks, Peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung openfor him.     He went through it with his composure slipping still further from hisgrip. This was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept openingbefore and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last ofhis calm was blasted away by a bellow from within.     Don't stand out there like a jackass! Either come in or go away!     Peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. He stoppedjust short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another,all the while thinking, Hold on now; you're in no shape for aninterview—and it's not your fault—this whole setup is geared tounnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal.     He let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath,straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applyingfor a position should.     Mr. Lexington? he said. I'm Peter Manners. The Association—     Sit down, said the man at the desk. Let's look you over.     He was a huge man behind an even huger desk. Peter took a chair infront of the desk and let himself be inspected. It wasn't comfortable.He did some looking over of his own to ease the tension.     The room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout witha high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. The oversized desk andmassive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framedpaintings—by God, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls withflowers!—made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridorinto Hollywood's idea of an office.     His eyes eventually had to move to Lexington, and they were dauntedfor another instant. This was a citadel of a man—great girders offrame supporting buttresses of muscle—with a vaulting head anddrawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it.     But then Peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an ageto the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, thecomplexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, andthis was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble.     What can you do? asked Lexington abruptly.  <doc-sep>It made Peter feel he had been suckered, but he had decided to playthis straight all the way. He nodded.     Why'd you leave? Lexington pursued, unrelenting.     I finished the course and the increase they offered on a permanentbasis wasn't enough, so I went elsewhere—     With your head full of this nonsense about a shortage of engineers.     Peter swallowed. I thought it would be easier to get a job than it hasbeen, yes.     They start the talk about a shortage and then they keep it going. Why?So youngsters will take up engineering thinking they'll wind up among ahighly paid minority. You did, didn't you?     Yes, sir.     And so did all the others there with you, at school and in thisstockpiling outfit?     That's right.     Well, said Lexington unexpectedly, there      is     a shortage! And thestockpiles are the ones who made it, and who keep it going! And thehell of it is that they can't stop—when one does it, they all haveto, or their costs get out of line and they can't compete. What's thesolution?     I don't know, Peter said.     Lexington leaned back. That's quite a lot of admissions you've made.What makes you think you're qualified for the job I'm offering?     You said you wanted an engineer.     And I've just proved you're less of an engineer than when you leftschool. I have, haven't I?     All right, you have, Peter said angrily.     And now you're wondering why I don't get somebody fresh out of school.Right?     Peter straightened up and met the old man's challenging gaze. That andwhether you're giving me a hard time just for the hell of it.     Well, am I? Lexington demanded.     Looking at him squarely, seeing the intensity of the pain-drawn eyes,Peter had the startling feeling that Lexington was rooting for him!No, you're not.     Then what am I after?     Suppose you tell me.     So suddenly that it was almost like a collapse, the tension went outof the old man's face and shoulders. He nodded with inexpressibletiredness. Good again. The man I want doesn't exist. He has tobe made—the same as I was. You qualify, so far. You've lost yourillusions, but haven't had time yet to replace them with dogma orcynicism or bitterness. You saw immediately that fake humilityor cockiness wouldn't get you anywhere here, and you were right.Those were the important things. The background data I got from theAssociation on you counted, of course, but only if you were teachable.I think you are. Am I right?     At least I can face knowing how much I don't know, said Peter, ifthat answers the question.     It does. Partly. What did you notice about this plant?     In precis form, Peter listed his observations: the absence of windowsat sides and rear, the unusual amount of power, the automatic doors,the lack of employees' entrances.     Very good, said Lexington. Most people only notice the automaticdoors. Anything else?     Yes, Peter said. You're the only person I've seen in the building.     I'm the only one there is.     Peter stared his disbelief. Automated plants were nothing new, butthey all had their limitations. Either they dealt with exactly similarproducts or things that could be handled on a flow basis, like oil orwater-soluble chemicals. Even these had no more to do than process thegoods.     Come on, said Lexington, getting massively to his feet. I'll showyou.  <doc-sep></s>","Peter first meets Mr. Lexington at his interview. He finds the other man strange from the seemingly random questions that he asks. Mr. Lexington, however, becomes more interested in Peter when he is satisfied with the responses given. While the two of them are not close, Mr. Lexington does not dismiss him on the spot and instead takes him to tour the entire factory. He also elaborates on his life story to Peter, and he does have a certain degree of trust for the other man. On the other hand, Peter is very impressed by Mr. Lexington’s work and becomes more interested in how he has accomplished all of this in the time since he first began working on his business."
"<s>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration.     Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening.     They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.     There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him!     And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.     Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain!     Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right?     All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that?     Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong!     He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks—     Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey?     Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port.   <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered.     Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you?     Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage.     Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor.     Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things!     The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on.     Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra?     That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business.     Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair.     A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away!     The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.     The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—     Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him.       Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.  <doc-sep>  HAGERTY'S ENZYMES     By A. L. HALEY       There's a place for every man and a man for       every place, but on robot-harried Mars the       situation was just a little different.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping.     Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything.     Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs.     For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa.     Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial?     Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.     Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness.     Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the—     Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago?     Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!  <doc-sep></s>","Harper Breen is exhausted. His business worries are keeping him up at night, and he hasn't had a proper night's sleep in too long. His brother in law, Scribney , suggests paying a visit to a hotel on mars, where they have equatorial wells which cure people's ailments.  There is also a fungus that grows there that breaks down crude oil, a financial gold mine! Harper decides to go to this hotel, both for rest and the opportunity of getting into this new fungi business. After what seems like a mere number of hours, the rocket comes into land, and Harper goes directly to the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel. Harper notices the beauty of his surroundings, and how the entire hotel is staffed by very efficient, silent robots. He goes over to the desk, where a woman is complaining to the clerk about the treatment she is receiving from these robots. Harper decides to go over and interrupt the conversation, asking for his room key. A large man walks over, also asking for service. In a panic, the clerk hastily gives a room key to Harper, and hands him off to a robot to show him to his room. Harper arrives in his room where he gets settled, and then makes his way to the restaurant. Suddenly, Harper wakes up to see two robots bending over him. They take him by force and wheel him away into surgery. Harper wakes up to find the same man from the clerk desk knocking at his door. The man introduces himself as Jake Ellis, of Hagerty's Enzymes. He works on the tundra in the fungus plants. Two more robots enter and take Harper away again. Hey put him through a rigorous amount of detoxing procedures that wipe him out. He speaks with Ellis again, who complains that he hasn't received any treatments yet. Harper proposes that the clerk probably mixed up their room keys. They decide to switch rooms and clothes to see what happens.  Harper goes to Ellis' room, puts on his clothes, and walks down to the lobby, where he meets the clerk once again. He demands to see the manager, and after an altercation, the clerk shows him to his office. Harper states to the manager that he is Harper S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart Inc. He complains to him about the treatment he had received because the clerk mixed up his room key.The manager tells him to sue if he wants, the business is already failing. He knows the robots are turning people away. Breen tells the manager that he could take the robots off his hands, for a reasonable price, that way the hotel would be able to afford real nurses again. Harper arrives back on Earth to tell his sister and brother in law that he has bought out Hagerty's Enzymes, and staffed it with the robots from the hotel. "
"<s>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration.     Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening.     They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.     There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him!     And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.     Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain!     Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right?     All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that?     Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong!     He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks—     Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey?     Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port.   <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered.     Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you?     Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage.     Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor.     Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things!     The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on.     Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra?     That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business.     Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair.     A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away!     The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.     The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—     Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him.       Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.  <doc-sep>  HAGERTY'S ENZYMES     By A. L. HALEY       There's a place for every man and a man for       every place, but on robot-harried Mars the       situation was just a little different.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping.     Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything.     Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs.     For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa.     Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial?     Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.     Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness.     Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the—     Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago?     Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!  <doc-sep></s>","The main setting of the story in the Emerald Star Hotel. The half acre wide floor is covered with grey carpeting. There are glass walls which tint the light from the sun green. Outside are stunning domed gardens in a dozen acre lot. The lobby which holds the clerks desk is huge. Harper's room inside the hotel is stunning. The walls are made from the same green glass, which are accentuated with windows which look out onto the Martian hinterland. On the top of the skyscraper hotel is a domed roof restaurant, which is furnished with cushioned chairs. In another area of the hotel is a hospital, where it treats patients. Near the lobby is the manager's office. "
"<s>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration.     Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening.     They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.     There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him!     And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.     Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain!     Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right?     All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that?     Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong!     He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks—     Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey?     Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port.   <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered.     Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you?     Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage.     Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor.     Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things!     The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on.     Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra?     That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business.     Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair.     A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away!     The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.     The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—     Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him.       Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.  <doc-sep>Scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brainwere the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique andscheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp'snervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interferewith the harmony of his home.     You're away behind the times, Harp, he declared. Don't you knowthat those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springsever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has builtthe largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and thatpeople are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,you missed a bet!     Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine fromScribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shapedstructure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rockof Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circularskyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in thedrawing looked lovely and enticing.     Why, I remember now! exclaimed Bella. That's where the Durants wenttwo years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They cameback in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib?     Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martiansprings had effected in the Durants. It's the very thing for you,Harp, he advised. You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gasthey use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort offloats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. Andyou can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And notonly that. Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant lookingbrother-in-law. The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated anenzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oilinto its components without the need for chemical processing. There's afortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learnsto process the stuff!     Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. Themagazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd andcalculating. He even forgot to twitch. Maybe you're right, Scrib, heacknowledged. Combine a rest-cure with business, eh?     Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And thatwas when he saw the line about the robots. —the only hotel staffedentirely with robot servants—     Robots! he shrilled. You mean they've developed the things to thatpoint? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'lldisfranchise him! I'll—     Harp! exploded Bella. Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thingabout it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing atantrum? That's the only sensible way!     You're right, Bella, agreed Harper incisively. I'll go and find outfor myself. Immediately! Scooping up his hat, he left at his usuallope.     Well! remarked his sister. All I can say is that they'd better turnthat happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out!  <doc-sep></s>","The robots do not make good hotel staff because they are so efficient, they lack any comprehension that humans inherently possess. When Harper first arrives in the hotel, he notices that a woman named Mrs. Jacobsen is giving out about her treatment by the robots. She thinks that the service they provide is too good. She isn't able to change her mind because the robots won't listen, they will just follow orders. They don't listen to Harper when he tries to tell them that he did not book into the hotel for treatment, as they are simply following orders. They don't reason with him when he tries to get out of the treatment, and force him to undergo the procedures. The manager knows that the robots aren't working, and he tells Harper that guest reservations have already declined because of it. "
"<s>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered.     Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you?     Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage.     Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor.     Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things!     The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on.     Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra?     That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business.     Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair.     A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away!     The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.     The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—     Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him.       Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.  <doc-sep>  HAGERTY'S ENZYMES     By A. L. HALEY       There's a place for every man and a man for       every place, but on robot-harried Mars the       situation was just a little different.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping.     Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything.     Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs.     For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa.     Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial?     Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.     Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness.     Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the—     Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago?     Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!  <doc-sep>Only the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the hugesuave lobby.     He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted theother visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of theelevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an islandin a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring theoversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robotsshared his self control.     The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines movinginexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. Get that patient! heordered. Take him to the—to the mud-baths!     No you don't! yelled Harper. I want to see the manager! Nimbly hecircled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw thingsat the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.Especially, card indexes.     Stop it! begged the clerk. You'll wreck the system! We'll never getit straight again! Stop it!     Call them off! snarled Harper. Call them off or I'll ruin yourswitchboard! He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave.     With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up anelectric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They becameoddly inanimate.     That's better! Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed thecollar of his flapping coat. Now—the manager, please.     This—this way, sir. With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper acrossthe width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyondspeech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside andreturned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and atthe same time phrase his resignation in his mind.     Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harperflapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, whowas busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metaldesk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. My goodman— he began.     Don't 'my-good-man' me! snapped Harper. He glared back at themanager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he couldstretch, he shook his puny fist. Do you know who I am? I'm HarperS. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why Ihaven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my waydownstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and thosedamnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have asheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!     Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplecticpattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead.       My     robots! he muttered.As if I invented the damned things!     Despondently he looked at Harper. Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If youdon't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in myresignation.     Again he sighed. The trouble, he explained, is that those foolrobots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mixthe two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live withrobots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.We— he grimaced disgustedly—had to pioneer in the use of robots.And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate.     Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now hehooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down andreached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. Oh, Idon't know, he said mildly.     Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. Whatdo you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,aren't you?     Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. It seems to me thatthese robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might evenmake a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at areasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered atyour establishment.     Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. You mean you want these robotsafter what you've seen and experienced?     Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. Of course, you'd have to takeinto consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. Andthere's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'mwilling to discuss the matter with your superiors.     With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted hishead. My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'llback you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest ofthe hotel. Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawnyhand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door butacross the lobby to the elevator.     Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like thetreatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shouldersinside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was readyfor the second step of his private Operation Robot.  <doc-sep></s>","Against his will, Harper is subject to a number of treatments at the hotel. He is dunked into mud baths for extensive periods of time. He is held in rancid smelling irradiated hot water. He is made to eat and drink strange concoctions. His stomach is pumped with food. They massage and exercise him. Harper hates all of this. It does do him good though. He notices that his skin which was once yellow, is now returning to a flesh colour. He can finally sleep well again also. When he returns to Earth, he is happy and energised for the first time in years. He looks fitter, and younger than he did before he left. "
"<s>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered.     Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you?     Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage.     Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor.     Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things!     The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on.     Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra?     That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business.     Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair.     A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away!     The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly.     The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers—     Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him.       Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed.  <doc-sep>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration.     Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening.     They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed.     There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him!     And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years.     Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain!     Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right?     All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that?     Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong!     He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks—     Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey?     Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port.   <doc-sep>  HAGERTY'S ENZYMES     By A. L. HALEY       There's a place for every man and a man for       every place, but on robot-harried Mars the       situation was just a little different.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping.     Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything.     Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs.     For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa.     Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial?     Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.     Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness.     Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the—     Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago?     Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!  <doc-sep></s>","Jake Ellis is a man who works on the tundra, as one of the superintendents of the fungus plants. He booked into the hotel as his health has been on a decline because of his working conditions. The temperature in the factories are usually below freezing, he has to wear a pressure suit, the air quality is terrible and he has to live on processed food. He hoped to get treatment at the hotel, but since his arrival, he has been practically ignored by the staff, and left in his room. This is because the clerk switched his room key with Ellis'. When he meets Ellis and they decide to switch rooms, he finally gets his first treatment. "
"<s>   The Ignoble Savages     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Snaddra had but one choice in its fight       to afford to live belowground—underhandedly       pretend theirs was an aboveboard society!        Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra.     But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested.     Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever.       Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking!     Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe.     This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all.     Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!     There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl.     I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all.     It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","qds-lb-writing-099be7bcf434f75d.elb.us-east-2.amazonaws.com/?uid=fbb302599a4a417fbc34eb1b65558c19The Ignoble Savages by Evelyn E. Smith details the tale of a race on the brink of extinction and their strange attempt to save themselves. Snaddra is a rainy planet with a mud surface. Due to the harsh weather, the Snaddrath chose to build their cities underground. Their civilized culture allowed for excellence in the metal industry and architecture, however, their isolation caused for poor education and expensive trade deals. In the face of crisis, the Bbulas Plan emerged, a plot to move their capital aboveground to convince visiting Terrans of their primitive nature and need for help. It begins with Skirru, an architect-turned-beggar, arguing with his former fiance, Larhgan, who is now the High Priestess. Their new jobs forbid marriage between the two, so Larhgan returns his grimpatch with regret. Bbulas, the new High Priest, watches gleefully, as he was in love with Larhgan all along. After much fighting, they levitate to the surface of the planet and wait for the Terrans to arrive. Now covered with huts, the new caste system emerges. Skirru is upset about his current position and feels ill. The woven metal clothes he was given to wear did not shield him from the light, so his green skin starts fading to yellow. The Terrans arrive, Raoul and Cyril, to analyze the planet. Skirru begs in front of them, and they give him a chocolate bar, a delicacy on Snaddra. He eats it quickly, grateful for the treat as it restores health to sick Snaddrath. He remembers a pair of shoes he once got and dashes belowground to get them, returning with booted feet. Able to walk easier now, he follows the Terrans to the temple, where Bbulas and Larhgan are waiting. Raoul eyes the female Snaddrath hungrily. Cyril reminds him that they are there to investigate, not fraternize with the natives. Once there, Larhgan welcomes them with a long speech Bbulas wrote. Bbulas invites the Terrans to a rain dance, which they laugh at seeing as the planet is covered in mud. Bbulas recovers quickly and claims it’s a ceremony to stop the rain. Already, his plot to save his planet is falling apart. Raoul quickly notices that the beggar, Skkiru, is wearing mudshoes, which makes no sense. Bbulas changes the subject and points them towards their hut, evidently the nicest one on Snaddra. He runs to Skkiru and angrily confronts him about his footwear. "
"<s>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top.     The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation.     The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program.     It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice.     But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance.     Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet?     Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought—     Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me!     Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly.  <doc-sep>She had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from thelibrary, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terraninfluence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw.     No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triplesomersault in the air with rage. Then why was I made a beggar and shethe high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You—     Now, Skkiru, Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all thisbefore, you know that all the ranks and positions were distributedby impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as couldcarry over from the civilized into the primitive.     Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenseswere not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddrawas now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so hewas forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on thesmooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt.     After all, he went on speaking as he wiped, I have to be highpriest, since I organized this culture and am the only one herequalified to administer it. And, as the president himself concurred inthese arrangements, I hardly think you—a mere private citizen—havethe right to question them.     Just because you went to school in another solar system, Skkiru said,whirling with anger, you think you're so smart!     I won't deny that I do have educational and cultural advantageswhich were, unfortunately, not available to the general populace ofthis planet. However, even under the old system, I was always glad toutilize my superior attainments as Official Dilettante for the good ofall and now—     Sure, glad to have a chance to rig this whole setup so you could breakup things between Larhgan and me. You've had your eye on her for sometime.     Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provokehim into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One ofthe chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control andBbulas had been thoroughly terranized.       I hate Terrestrials     , Skkiru said to himself.      I hate Terra.     Thequiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoilingin his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he wereto break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the finalhumiliation.     Skkiru! the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like herfiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had causedall such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on theplanet, had received her education at the local university. Althoughsound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poorin the emotional department. One would almost think that the lots hadsome sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly arebehaving in a beggarly manner!     And I have already explained to you, Skkiru, Bbulas said, with apatience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, that I had noidea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. Itis, as the Earthmen say, kismet.  <doc-sep>Unfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabledhim both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had beenso drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably haveto arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru'spatriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to diefor his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as theresult of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them.     All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led offto the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be forone of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsistmiserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. Thecapital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon followsuit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keepthe Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities.     He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one ofthem, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playingthe game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan.     As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury whichstruck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowedto help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all thatthemselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been putout centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquiredfrom a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, fartoo high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly andmuch more cheaply.     It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra hadbeen forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside fromminerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. Alllife-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish andrice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally aTerran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from theother planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any ofthe direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the touristbusiness.     Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decayaltogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in.  <doc-sep></s>","The visiting Terrans, Cyril and Raoul, are visiting Snaddra to survey and analyze the native culture. Evidently, Terrans do this on planets across the universe, immersing themselves in the culture only to leave however many days, months, or years later with a full-fledged report. Their visit is significant because it may give the Snaddrath a chance to revitalize their economy and people. Due to their current lack of resources, muddy surface, and planetary isolation, the Snaddrath are facing extinction. They hope that by presenting themselves as a primitive civilization, the Terrans will be more inclined to establish trade with them and give them an economic boost. "
"<s>   The Ignoble Savages     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Snaddra had but one choice in its fight       to afford to live belowground—underhandedly       pretend theirs was an aboveboard society!        Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra.     But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested.     Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever.       Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking!     Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe.     This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all.     Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!     There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl.     I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all.     It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first.  <doc-sep>He adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polishedfour-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.       Kismet     , Skkiru muttered to himself,      and a little sleight of hand.     But he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws ofSnaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, And Isuppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on theground during the day, like—like savages.     It is necessary, Bbulas replied without turning.     Pooh, Skkiru said. Pooh,      pooh     , POOH!     Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. Skkiru! Such language!     As you said, Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna atSkkiru, the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall haveanother drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker.     But I can't work metal!     Then that will make it much worse for you than for the otheroutcasts, Bbulas said smugly, because you will be a pariah without atrade.     Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'dbetter give you back your grimpatch— Larhgan handed the glitteringbauble to him—and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed anylonger, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl.     I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl! Skkiruyelled, twirling madly in the air.     As for me, she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, I do notthink I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas?     Even if there will be, Bbulas said, you certainly won't qualify ifyou keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents atrait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemlywith the high priestess's robes.     Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. I shall set myself apartfrom mundane affairs, she vowed, and I shall pretend to be happy,even though my heart will be breaking.     It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous thewhole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet'sproblem. Listen— he began, but just then excited noises filtereddown from overhead. It was too late.     Earth ship in view! a squeaky voice called through the intercom.Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes.     Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas hadmade him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash.     Hurry up, Skkiru.  <doc-sep>Unfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabledhim both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had beenso drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably haveto arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru'spatriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to diefor his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as theresult of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them.     All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led offto the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be forone of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsistmiserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. Thecapital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon followsuit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keepthe Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities.     He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one ofthem, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playingthe game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan.     As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury whichstruck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowedto help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all thatthemselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been putout centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquiredfrom a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, fartoo high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly andmuch more cheaply.     It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra hadbeen forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside fromminerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. Alllife-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish andrice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally aTerran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from theother planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any ofthe direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the touristbusiness.     Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decayaltogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in.  <doc-sep></s>","The natives of Snaddra are a very civilized race, progressing beyond what life on Earth is like now. They live underground, due to the terrible weather on the surface of the planet, and have built extensive cities and tunnels. They designed flying cars to use on the surface, and they have the capability to levitate. Their outward appearance is somewhat humanoid, though there are some very distinct and different features. For one, the natives have antennae, as well as green skin. When healthy, their skin is a beautiful emerald green color, but if they grow ill it will become more yellow. The Snaddrath also have three eyes, requiring spectacles to have three individual lenses. When upset, anxious, or provoked, they have a tendency to twirl mid-air. If a Snaddrath falls in love with another, they give their lover their grimpatch, a beautiful bauble, to indicate their dedication. Many Snaddrath work in the metal industry since some of the few resources left on the planet are minerals. "
"<s>   The Ignoble Savages     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Snaddra had but one choice in its fight       to afford to live belowground—underhandedly       pretend theirs was an aboveboard society!        Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra.     But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested.     Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever.       Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking!     Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe.     This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all.     Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!     There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl.     I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all.     It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first.  <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him.     Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down.     He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate?     Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel!           What?          Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor.     Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays.     Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how—     Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers?     Uh-huh. What are they, Star?     They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life!     He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri!  <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  <doc-sep></s>","Snaddra is a planet leagues away from many other solar systems. Its isolation and general lack of resources has left the planet as a whole in a terrible situation. Snaddra has two seasons: wet and wetter season. Raining practically every day, the surface of the planet is covered in mud. Because of the muddy surface and difficult weather, the Snaddrath have built cities underground and truly thrived there. Skkiru, one of the main characters, is an architect, and supposedly helped to build underground buildings and cities. Their futuristic lifestyle is threatened, however, by a lack of resources. The only crop that can grow on Snaddra is rice, brought in by Terrans, and much of the native animals and fish are dying out. The one commodity and resource left is minerals. However, the constant importation of foreign goods depleted their economy, leaving the Snaddrath between a rock and a hard place. Bbulas, the Planetary Dilettante, developed the Bbulas Plan to save Snaddra from ruin. He designed a whole aboveground world, new garbs for citizens, as well as an entirely new culture. He believes, as does most of Snaddra, that a primitive culture will draw Terrans in more than an equally advanced and civilized one. So, the story mostly takes place on the surface of Snaddra, now covered in huts. "
"<s>   The Ignoble Savages     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Snaddra had but one choice in its fight       to afford to live belowground—underhandedly       pretend theirs was an aboveboard society!        Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra.     But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested.     Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever.       Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking!     Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe.     This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all.     Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea!     There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl.     I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all.     It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first.  <doc-sep>He adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polishedfour-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber.       Kismet     , Skkiru muttered to himself,      and a little sleight of hand.     But he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws ofSnaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, And Isuppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on theground during the day, like—like savages.     It is necessary, Bbulas replied without turning.     Pooh, Skkiru said. Pooh,      pooh     , POOH!     Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. Skkiru! Such language!     As you said, Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna atSkkiru, the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall haveanother drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker.     But I can't work metal!     Then that will make it much worse for you than for the otheroutcasts, Bbulas said smugly, because you will be a pariah without atrade.     Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'dbetter give you back your grimpatch— Larhgan handed the glitteringbauble to him—and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed anylonger, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl.     I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl! Skkiruyelled, twirling madly in the air.     As for me, she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, I do notthink I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas?     Even if there will be, Bbulas said, you certainly won't qualify ifyou keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents atrait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemlywith the high priestess's robes.     Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. I shall set myself apartfrom mundane affairs, she vowed, and I shall pretend to be happy,even though my heart will be breaking.     It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous thewhole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet'sproblem. Listen— he began, but just then excited noises filtereddown from overhead. It was too late.     Earth ship in view! a squeaky voice called through the intercom.Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes.     Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas hadmade him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash.     Hurry up, Skkiru.  <doc-sep>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top.     The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation.     The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program.     It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice.     But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance.     Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet?     Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought—     Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me!     Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly.  <doc-sep></s>","Bbulas, a Snaddrath, was chosen as a young boy to attend a Terran school on Gambrell. This Terran League University was far too expensive for any Snaddrath to afford, not only due to tuition costs. The travel expenses alone were outrageous. And so, only one student per generation would receive funds to attend. Since Bbulas was schooled there, he has more Terran tendencies than his brethren, such as his ability to not show emotions or keep from whirling when upset. After attending university, he was selected to work as the Planetary Dilettante. This selection process involves testing Snaddrath in a variety of subjects. Evidently, Bbulas’ scores were the highest, so when President Luccar declared a state of emergency, he chose Bbulas to fix the situation at hand. Bbulas designed the Bbulas Plan to solve Snaddra’s economic downfall. His ultimate goal was to entice Terrans to come to Snaddra and support the planet with foreign trade. In order to do so, he decided to completely redesign their entire culture and move their capital aboveground. Bbulas believes that Terrans will be more likely to help if Snaddra is primitive in nature. The story begins with an argument between Skkiru, Larhgan, and Bbulas. Bbulas elected himself High Priest in the new world, and the lots elected Larhgan to be the High Priestess. Skkiru, her fiance, was to be a beggar, sot hey could no longer be together, much to Bbulas’ delight. After passively threatening Skkiru, the three rise to the surface and ready themselves for the Terrans’ arrival. Bbulas welcomes the Terrans at the temple and invites them to a stop-the-rain ceremony. He sends the Terrans to their hut and then becomes upset at Skkiru for wearing mud shoes when he is supposed to be a beggar. "
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob!     I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move.     I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it.     How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy.     Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die?     We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet.     Well?     Probably he's immortal.     And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically.     Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures.     But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now.     Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now.  <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either.     Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth.      If     we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it.     That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D.     Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested.     Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to.     Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa?     Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth—     Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization?     Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't.  <doc-sep></s>"," Grampa Peppergrass is an inventor, creator of the gravity polarizer and the space flivver, which have earned him one hundred million dollars. But he invested much of his earnings in perpetual motion machines and longevity pills. Now, the Peppergrass family travels to different planets, searching for radioactive metals that they can exploit to make themselves a fortune. The family consists of four generations of men and their spouses. Apparently, Grandpa, who is 90-years-old, is a widower. His son, Fred, is 60 and married to Joyce. Their son Junior, 35, is married to Reba; they are parents of an eight-year-old genius son known as Four.	The flivver they travel in was purchased by Grampa, who gave ⅙ ownership to each of the family members. The flivver’s landing is unusually bumpy because the gravity polarizer failed. Through the view screen, they see that the planet has meadows, woodlands, plains, and lakes, and Four announces that it also has fauna before he rushes out the air lock to check it out. The ship has already ascertained that the air is almost like that on Earth, and there are no micro-organisms. When Four returns to the flivver accompanied by the native fauna, Fweep, he announces they are friends. The creature looks like a transparent blob and likes to sweep. Four is curious about what Fweep does with the sweepings since the outer inch or so of his body turns cloudy but clears afterward. 	After Fred and Junior use their scintillation counters to search for heavy metals, they return to the flivver to report there aren’t any, just low-grade iron. The group mulls over what could be making the planet so heavy if it doesn’t have heavy metals, but no one has the answer. Junior and Fred tell the rest of the family that the gravity polarizer isn’t working and that without it, they will not be able to lift off. Reba looks on the bright side and says they can have more children instead of stopping at one child, as is currently the dictated number on Earth. In the meantime, Four returns from an excursion searching for the center of gravity for the planet and announces that it changes because of Fweep’s presence. The little guy is a circular polarizer, making the planet heavy and preventing their gravity polarizer from working. Fweep is also radioactive and has impervious skin. Joyce is furious that Fweep is making them stay there, and when Grampa jokingly, or as a test, suggests leaving Four behind with Fweep, she immediately goes along with it. Four offers to stay behind with Fweep, who is lonely and likes having a friend so much it doesn’t want to lose Four. Grampa announces that the problem isn’t one that their computer can solve; instead, it’s a logic problem like the ones Four told him earlier.   "
"<s>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either.     Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth.      If     we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it.     That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D.     Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested.     Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to.     Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa?     Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth—     Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization?     Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't.  <doc-sep>   The Gravity Business     By JAMES E. GUNN     Illustrated by ASHMAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.]        This little alien beggar could dictate his own terms, but how couldhe—and how could anyone find out what those terms might be?        The flivver descended vertically toward the green planet circling theold, orange sun.     It was a spaceship, but not the kind men had once dreamed about. Theflivver was shaped like a crude bullet, blunt at one end of a fatcylinder and tapering abruptly to a point at the other. It had beenslapped together out of sheet metal and insulation board, and it sold,fully equipped, for $15,730. It didn't behave like a spaceship, either.     As it hurtled down, its speed increased with dramatic swiftness. Then,at the last instant before impact, it stopped. Just like that.     A moment later, it thumped a last few inches into the ankle-deep grassand knee-high white flowers of the meadow. It was a shock of a jar thatmade the sheet-metal walls boom like thunder machines. The flivverrocked unsteadily on its flat stern before it decided to stay upright.     Then all was quiet—outside.     Inside the big, central cabin, Grampa waved his pircuit irately in theair. Now look what you made me do! Just when I had the blamed thingpractically whipped, too!  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep></s>","The first setting mentioned in the story is the flivver, a bullet-shaped spaceship that lands vertically on the blunt end. It is made of sheet metal and insulation board. Fully equipped, a flivver sells for $15,730. The flivver has a large central cabin with the pilot’s chair; the control stick is situated between the pilot’s knees, and there is an on/off button for the gravity polarizer. It is also equipped with a computer named Abacus that analyzes data that fed into it. Flivvers have their own power plants that operate their lights, air and water recirculation systems, and food and clothing synthesizers. It also has a storage battery. Off of the central cabin, there are several private rooms. The flivver is owned jointly by the Peppergrass family; Grandpa bought it the ‘23 model and gave everyone ⅙ shares. The flivver also carries devices that can analyze the air and detect microorganisms.The other setting where the story takes place is on a planet much like Earth, with a diameter smaller than Mercury’s but a gravitational pull as strong as Earth’s. The Peppergrass family calls the world Fweepland since “Fweep” is the sound/word the one organism there says. Fweepland’s air is within 1% of Earth’s air, and there are no microorganisms present. Fweepland features a beautiful landscape with a peaceful green woodland, grassy plains, a meadow, and a blue lake. The only organism they encounter is Fweep, a friendly blob-shaped creature that sweeps over debris and picks it up. The Peppergrass family hopes to find radioactive or heavy metals on the planet, but their scintillation counters only detect low-grade iron. Four points out that while it doesn’t have the metals they are looking for, the planet is very valuable as real estate. Interestingly, the planet’s center of gravity shifts wherever Fweep goes. A day on Fweepland is 16 Earth hours, as that is the length of time it takes for one rotation of the planet.The story presumably takes place sometime in the 22nd century as Grampa references Einstein’s work “two hundred years ago.” There are some references to life on Earth at this time. Families are only allowed one child; if they have more, they are exiled from civilization. We can also assume that others are traveling into space since Grampa became wealthy from his invention of flivvers and gravity polarizers. People on Earth are trying to lengthen their lives, hence Grampa’s efforts to create longevity pills and his hundred-year contract with the Life-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company."
"<s>Reba looked at Fweep kindly. We can thank the little fellow for that,anyway.     I thank him for nothing, Joyce snapped. He lured us down here bymaking us think the planet had heavy metals and I want him to let us go      immediately     !     Fred turned impatiently on his wife. Well, try making him understand!And if you can make him understand what you want him to do, try makinghim do it!     Joyce looked at Fred with startled eyes. Fred! she said in a high,shocked voice and turned blindly toward her room.     Grampa lowered his bottle and smacked his lips. Well, boy, he said toFred, I thought you'd never do that. Didn't think you had it in you.     Fred stood up apologetically. I'd better go calm her down, hemuttered, and walked quickly after Joyce.     Give her one for me! Grampa called.     Fred's shoulders twitched as the door closed behind him. From the roomcame the filtered sound of high-pitched voices rising and falling likesome reedy folk music.     Makes you think, doesn't it? Grampa said, looking at Fweep benignly.Maybe the whole theory of gravitation is cockeyed. Maybe there's aFweep for every planet and sun, big and little, polarizing the gravityin circles, and the matter business is not a cause but a result.     What I can't understand, Junior said thoughtfully, is why thepolarizer worked for a little while when we landed—long enough to keepus from being squashed—and then quit.     Fweep didn't recognize it immediately, didn't know what it was orwhere it came from, Four explained. All he knew was he didn't likelinear polarization and he neutralized it as soon as he could. That'swhen we dropped.  <doc-sep>We're stuck, Reba said softly. We might as well admit it. All we cando is set the transmitter to send out an automatic distress call—     Which, Joyce interrupted, might get picked up in a few centuries.     And make the best of what we've got, Reba went on, unheeding. If welook at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world.Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there'sthe resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. Bythen, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out herewe won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies wewant.     You know the law: one child per couple, Joyce reminded her frigidly.You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Notme.     Junior frowned at his wife. I believe you're actually glad ithappened.     I could think of worse things, Reba said.     I like your spunk, Reb, Grampa muttered.     Speaking of children, Junior said, where's Four?     Here. Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room,carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting asmall box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round,raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep.     Fweep? it queried hopefully.     Not now, said Four.     Where've you been? Reba asked anxiously. What've you been doing?     I've been all over Fweepland, Four said wearily, trying to locateits center of gravity.     Well? Fred prompted.     It shifts.     That's impossible, said Junior.     Not for Fweep, Four replied.     What do you mean by that? Joyce suspiciously asked.     It shifted, Four explained patiently, because Fweep kept followingme.     Fweep? Junior repeated stupidly.     Fweep? Fweep said eagerly.     He's why the flivver won't work. What Grampa invented was a linearpolarizer. Fweep is a circular polarizer. He's what makes this planetso heavy. He's why we can't leave.  <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned like a fat old man toasting himself infront of an open fire, and Junior sat at the computer's keyboardswearing in a steady monotone.     Junior! said Joyce, shocked.     Junior swung around impatiently. Sorry, Mother, but this damned thingwon't work.     I'm sure that calling it names won't help, and besides, you shouldn'texpect a machine to do something that we can't do. And if it did work,it would only say that the logical answer is the one I sug—     Mother! Junior warned. We decided not to talk about it any more.Four is strange enough without encouraging him to think like a martyr.It's out of the question. If that's the only way we can leave thisplanet, we'll stay here until Four has a beard as white as Grampa's!     Well! Joyce said in a stiff, offended tone and sat back in her chair.     Grampa lowered the nippled bottle from his lips and chortled. Junior,I apologize for all the mean things I ever said about you. Maybe yougot the makings of a Peppergrass yet.     Junior turned back to the keyboard and studied it, his chin in hishand. It's just a matter of stating the problem in terms the computercan work on.     I take it all back, said Grampa. That computer won't help you withthis problem, Junior. This ain't a long, complicated calculation; it'sa simple problem in logic. It's a pircuit problem, like the one aboutthe cannibals and the missionaries. We can't leave Fweepland becauseFweep won't let our polarizer work. He won't let our polarizer workbecause he doesn't like gravity that's polarized in a straight line,and he don't want Four to leave him.     Now Fweep ain't the brightest creature in the Universe, so he can'tunderstand why we're so gosh-fired eager to leave. And as long as he'sgot Four, he's happy. Why should he make himself unhappy? As a favorto Four, he'd let us leave—if we'd leave Four here with him, which weain't gonna do.     That's the problem. All we got to do is figure out the answer. No usemaking a pircuit, because a puzzle circuit is just a miniature computerwith the solution built in; if you can build the pircuit, you'vealready solved the problem. And if you can state the problem to Abacus,you've already got the answer. All you want from it then is decimalpoints.     That may be, Junior said stubbornly, but I still want to know whythis computer won't work. It won't even do simple arithmetic! Where'sFour? He's the only one who understands this thing.     He's outside, playing in the meadow with Fweep, Reba said, her voicesoft. No, here they come now.  <doc-sep></s>","Fweep is significant because he is the only creature living on Fweepland. He is a blob-shaped, raspberry-colored, gelatinous, transparent creature who sweeps up the debris that he runs over and engulfs it in his body. After he sweeps up particles, the outer inch or two of his body turns cloudy, then slowly clears. It seems he also absorbs substances from human contact since he follows a crooked path and hiccups after Grampa, who has been imbibing, pats him. He has a pseudo-mouth and makes the sound, or says the word, “Fweep.” His skin is impervious, and he has no enzymes or nervous system, so rat poison has no effect on him. Fweep immediately befriends Four. 	When Four explores Fweepland to identify its center of gravity, he discovers that it shifts because Fweep is a circular polarizer. Fweep is what makes the planet so heavy and prevents the flivver’s gravity polarizer from working so the family can leave. Fweep is slightly radioactive and likely immortal and incapable of reproduction since there is no need to reproduce. Because he has circular polarization, linear polarization is uncomfortable to him, so Fweep turned of the flivver’s gravity polarizer just before they landed. Fweep wants to be helpful, but he doesn’t want Four to leave since Four is the only friend he has ever had. Fweep was lonely before he met Four. Fweep will let the Peppergrass family leave only if Four stays with him. Fweep is responsible for the family’s landing on Fweepland and their predicament of being unable to leave."
"<s>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either.     Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth.      If     we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it.     That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D.     Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested.     Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to.     Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa?     Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth—     Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization?     Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>Grampa knitted his bushy, white eyebrows and petulantly pushed the lastbutton on his pircuit. The last light went out. You've got work todo, have you? Whose flivver do you think this is, anyhow?     It belongs to all of us, Four said shrilly. You gave us all a sixthshare.     That's right, Four, Grampa muttered, so I did. But whose moneybought it?     You bought it, Grampa, Fred said.     That's right! And who invented the gravity polarizer and the spaceflivver? Eh? Who made possible this gallivanting all over space?     You, Grampa, Fred said.     You bet! And who made one hundred million dollars out of it that therest of you vultures are just hanging around to gobble up when I die?     And who spent it all trying to invent perpetual motion machines andlongevity pills, Joyce said bitterly, and fixed it so we'd have togo searching for uranium and habitable worlds all through this deadlygalaxy? You, Grampa!     Well, now, Grampa protested, I got a little put away yet. You'll besorry when I'm dead and gone.     You're never going to die, Grampa, Joyce said harshly. Justbefore we left, you bought a hundred-year contract with thatLife-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company.     Well, now, said Grampa, blinking, how'd you find out about that?Well, now! In confusion, he turned back to the pircuit and jabbed abutton. Thirteen slim lights sprang on. I'll get you this time!     Four stretched and stood up. He looked curiously into the corner by thecomputer where Grampa's chair stood. You brought that pircuit fromEarth, didn't you? What's the game?     Grampa looked up, obviously relieved to drop his act of intenseconcentration. I'll tell you, boy. You play against the pircuit,taking turns, and you can put out one, two or three lights. The playerwho makes the other one turn out the last light is the winner.     That's simple, Four said without hesitation. The winning strategy isto—     Don't be a kibitzer! Grampa snapped. When I need help, I'll askfor it. No dad-blamed machine is gonna outthink Grampa! He snortedindignantly.  <doc-sep></s>","Four is the highly intelligent, eight-year-old youngest member of the Peppergrass family. Although he is the youngest, he is the one who figures out the answers to why Fweepland is so heavy and how Fweep disables the flivver’s gravity polarizer. As a child, he is more impulsive than the adults, for example rushing outside to meet Fweep when the others stay back, but this enables him to solve problems and answer questions faster. On the other hand, his lack of experience prevents him from solving the ultimate problem of how to leave the planet, but his riddles and comment that creating a puzzle means you already know the solution trigger an idea for Grampa that may help solve the family’s dilemma. By befriending Fweep so readily, Four discovers that Fweep is responsible for the planet’s “fake” heaviness and the failure of the flivver’s gravity polarizer. He also studies Fweep and determines his significant characteristics such as his impervious skin, lack of enzymes, and radioactivity. While the adults discuss and bemoan the fact that they cannot leave Fweepland, Four goes out and tries to identify the planet’s center of gravity and therefore discovers that Fweep affects the planet’s gravity and that he is a circular polarizer. At the end of the story, Junior even relies on Four to find out why the computer won’t work. Not only is Four a problem solver and investigator, but he is also logical and selfless. He realizes that Fweep doesn’t want him to leave and is willing to stay behind with Fweep so that the rest of his family can leave. "
"<s>Reba looked at Fweep kindly. We can thank the little fellow for that,anyway.     I thank him for nothing, Joyce snapped. He lured us down here bymaking us think the planet had heavy metals and I want him to let us go      immediately     !     Fred turned impatiently on his wife. Well, try making him understand!And if you can make him understand what you want him to do, try makinghim do it!     Joyce looked at Fred with startled eyes. Fred! she said in a high,shocked voice and turned blindly toward her room.     Grampa lowered his bottle and smacked his lips. Well, boy, he said toFred, I thought you'd never do that. Didn't think you had it in you.     Fred stood up apologetically. I'd better go calm her down, hemuttered, and walked quickly after Joyce.     Give her one for me! Grampa called.     Fred's shoulders twitched as the door closed behind him. From the roomcame the filtered sound of high-pitched voices rising and falling likesome reedy folk music.     Makes you think, doesn't it? Grampa said, looking at Fweep benignly.Maybe the whole theory of gravitation is cockeyed. Maybe there's aFweep for every planet and sun, big and little, polarizing the gravityin circles, and the matter business is not a cause but a result.     What I can't understand, Junior said thoughtfully, is why thepolarizer worked for a little while when we landed—long enough to keepus from being squashed—and then quit.     Fweep didn't recognize it immediately, didn't know what it was orwhere it came from, Four explained. All he knew was he didn't likelinear polarization and he neutralized it as soon as he could. That'swhen we dropped.  <doc-sep>He cleared his throat professorially. Well, now, in ordinary lightthe vibrations are perpendicular to the ray in all directions. Whenlight is polarized by passing through crystals or by reflection orrefraction at non-metallic surfaces, the paths of the vibrations arestill perpendicular to the ray, but they're in straight lines, circlesor ellipses.     The faces were still blank and unillumined.     Gravity is similar to light, he pressed on. In the absence ofmatter, gravity is non-polarized. Matter polarizes gravity in a circlearound itself. That's how we've always known it until the invention ofspaceships and later the polarizer. The polarizer polarizes gravityinto a straight line. That makes the ship take off and continueaccelerating until the polarizer is shut off or its angle is shifted.     The faces looked at him silently. Finally Joyce could endure it nolonger. That's just nonsense! You all know it. Grampa's no genius.He's just a tinkerer. One day he happened to tinker out the polarizer.He doesn't know how it works any more than I do.     Now wait a minute! Grampa protested. That's not fair. MaybeI didn't figure out the theory myself, but I read everything thescientists ever wrote about it. Wanted to know myself what made theblamed thing work. What I told you is what the scientists said, nearas I remember. Now me—I'm like Edison. I do it and let everybody elseworry over 'why.'     The only thing you ever did was the polarizer, Joyce snapped.And then you spent everything you got from it on those foolperpetual-motion machines and those crazy longevity schemes when anymoron would know they were impossible.     Grampa squinted at her sagely. That's what they said about the gravitypolarizer before I invented it.     But you don't really know why it works, Junior persisted.     Well, no, Grampa admitted. Actually I was just fiddling around withsome coils when one of them took off. Went right through the ceiling,dragging a battery behind it. I guess it's still going. Ought to be outnear the Horsehead Nebula by now. Luckily, I remembered how I'd woundit.     Why won't the ship work then, if you know so much? Joyce demandedironically.     Well, now, Grampa said in bafflement, it rightly should, you know.  <doc-sep>We're stuck, Reba said softly. We might as well admit it. All we cando is set the transmitter to send out an automatic distress call—     Which, Joyce interrupted, might get picked up in a few centuries.     And make the best of what we've got, Reba went on, unheeding. If welook at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world.Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there'sthe resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. Bythen, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out herewe won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies wewant.     You know the law: one child per couple, Joyce reminded her frigidly.You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Notme.     Junior frowned at his wife. I believe you're actually glad ithappened.     I could think of worse things, Reba said.     I like your spunk, Reb, Grampa muttered.     Speaking of children, Junior said, where's Four?     Here. Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room,carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting asmall box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round,raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep.     Fweep? it queried hopefully.     Not now, said Four.     Where've you been? Reba asked anxiously. What've you been doing?     I've been all over Fweepland, Four said wearily, trying to locateits center of gravity.     Well? Fred prompted.     It shifts.     That's impossible, said Junior.     Not for Fweep, Four replied.     What do you mean by that? Joyce suspiciously asked.     It shifted, Four explained patiently, because Fweep kept followingme.     Fweep? Junior repeated stupidly.     Fweep? Fweep said eagerly.     He's why the flivver won't work. What Grampa invented was a linearpolarizer. Fweep is a circular polarizer. He's what makes this planetso heavy. He's why we can't leave.  <doc-sep></s>","Joyce is Junior’s mother and Fred’s wife and is nearly sixty years old; she is still in good shape: slender, elegant, and attractive. However, she is described as having ice water instead of blood in her veins because she is such a cold-hearted woman much of the time. Joyce creates most of the tension in the story; she is frequently at odds with Grampa and says whatever she thinks, no matter how rude or hurtful it is. She presents as a spoiled, self-centered woman who only wants lots of money. Grampa’s inventions made him a multimillionaire, but she accuses him of wasting the money on new inventions and making it so that they had to travel the galaxy searching for uranium and other habitable worlds. When Grampa tells her he has set some money aside and she’ll be sorry when he’s dead, she responds that he’ll never die. And she knows he bought a hundred-year contract with the Life-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company. Joyce is eager to get her hands on some of Grampa’s money and resents that he is using some of it to carry out his research. When Four brings Fweep aboard the flivver, she is thoroughly disgusted and insists he take it back out; when Reba stands up for Four and Fweep and calls Joyce Grammy, Joyce is furious and goes into her private room. Later, she even tries to poison Fweep by leaving rat poison on the floor. When the men return from checking Fweepland for heavy metals or radioactive elements, she eagerly comes out of her room and immediately asks if they had found any uranium, radium, or thorium. Their negative answer again draws her ire and shows her greed. She complains to Fred that they are all supposed to get filthy rich finding radioactives and retire on Earth as billionaires. She resents the year they have spent looking for radioactives. When she learns that Fweep is the reason they can’t leave the planet, her first reaction is to kill him, and when she learns that killing him isn’t possible, she readily and seriously agrees to Grampa’s joke that they should leave Four behind so the rest of them can leave. Again, Joyce only wants what is best for her, and she is ready to kill or abandon anyone who stands in her way."
"<s>But now there was a spy in the elevator.     When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them.     I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda.     I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late.     He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out.     I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway.     I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old.     Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs?     Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them.     And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps.     Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open.     It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor.     On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty.     I read them. They said:     EMERGENCY ENTRANCE     ELEVATOR SHAFT     AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL     ONLY     KEEP LOCKED     I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed.     As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun.      III     He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft.     Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed.     Unfortunately, he recovered first.     He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound!     I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him.     He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he      didn't     look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment.     His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go?     I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid.     Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army!     But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live?     One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him.     All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun.     And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that?     I nodded.     All right. Let's go.     We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside.     Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips.     I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you.     You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted.     You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee?     Yes.     Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water.     I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner.     Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us.  <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and——     The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it.     It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't      get     disconnected! I told her.     We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen.     I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me      why     the elevator is disconnected?     I-am-sorry-sir-but-that——     Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses.     But now she was actually looking at      me     .     I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life.     She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life?     Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me?     She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time.     In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock.      I'm late!      I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've      done     , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even      speak     to me! Not now! Not after this!     Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout.     I'm not shouting!     Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your—     You      understand     ? I trembled with speechless fury.     She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator.      II     It was my turn to be stunned.     I just gaped at her. A—a what?     A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out.     Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out?     He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them.     That sounded impossible. He      aims     the elevator?     He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him.     Oh, I said. So it might take a while.     She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out.     Oh, no!     She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen.     For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked!     What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected?     Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War.     Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three.     The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000,      everybody     lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion.     And the Treaty of Oslo.     It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only      tactical     atomicweapons could be used. No      strategic     atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed.     Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles.     However, what with all of the      other     treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask.     And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that.  <doc-sep>   THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         He was dangerously insane. He threatened       to destroy everything that was noble and       decent—including my date with my girl!        When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say.     It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken.     But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock.     Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up.     Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays.     And then the elevator didn't come.  <doc-sep></s>","      It was one of those days when everything that could go wrong, goes wrong. Edmund Rice, the main character, has decided to propose to his girlfriend, Linda on the day when the story takes place, but at breakfast, he broke his egg yolk; he had a stuck zipper; he had feedback in the aircon exhaust; and his window stuck at full transparency. On top of all that, the elevator is late. Edmund’s girlfriend is a dispatcher for ore-sled robots; when one doesn’t return on time, they know that the robot has been been captured and therefore blown itself up. As a result, Linda is a real stickler for punctuality because if Edmund is late, as he was once before, she goes into hysterics thinking that something horrible has happened to him.      When the elevator doesn’t come, Edmund goes back to his apartment to call Linda to let her know why he will be late, but she has set her phone not to accept calls since she was expecting Edmund to come propose to her. Edmund decides to complain to the Transit Staff, who give him the official statement that the elevator is disconnected, but when Edmund explains that the late elevator is ruining his life, the operator takes pity on him and secretly tells him there is a spy on the elevator who won’t get off, and the Army might have to starve him to make him exit. Finally, at 10:15, Edmund thinks of taking the stairs, but when he does, the spy intercepts him, forcing him at gunpoint back to Edmund’s apartment. At this point, Edmund gives up on reaching Linda.     The spy tells Edmund he doesn’t want to hurt him and begins a conversation, asking what Edmund does for a living. Because Edmund doesn’t want the spy to know that he teaches gymnastics and knows wrestling, judo, and karati, he lies and tells him he is an ore-sled operator, figuring he can pull off the ruse since he knows a lot about Linda’s job. This piques the spy’s interest, and he asks what Edmund knows about the radiation level of the ore-sleds when they return. Edmund says they don’t check for radiation before de-radiating the sled; there’s no point. The spy is irritated that Edmund doesn’t even care about the radiation level outside the Project and compares the Projects to caves. The spy goes on to tell Edmund he isn’t a spy, that he is an atomic engineer from a Project 80 miles north. He traveled to Edmund’s Project on foot without any kind of radiation shield to prove that the radiation level is so low that it is safe for people to leaves the Projects. He is trying to get the word out, but people don’t believe him because their Commissions tell them the radiation level is still high and that it isn’t safe to go outside. Edmund thinks the man is a lunatic and doesn’t believe any of the ludicrous claims he makes."
"<s>But now there was a spy in the elevator.     When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them.     I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda.     I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late.     He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out.     I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway.     I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old.     Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs?     Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them.     And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps.     Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open.     It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor.     On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty.     I read them. They said:     EMERGENCY ENTRANCE     ELEVATOR SHAFT     AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL     ONLY     KEEP LOCKED     I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed.     As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun.      III     He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft.     Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed.     Unfortunately, he recovered first.     He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound!     I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him.     He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he      didn't     look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment.     His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go?     I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid.     Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army!     But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live?     One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him.     All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun.     And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that?     I nodded.     All right. Let's go.     We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside.     Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips.     I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you.     You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted.     You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee?     Yes.     Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water.     I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner.     Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us.  <doc-sep>   THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         He was dangerously insane. He threatened       to destroy everything that was noble and       decent—including my date with my girl!        When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say.     It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken.     But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock.     Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up.     Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays.     And then the elevator didn't come.  <doc-sep>Until then, I'd managed somehow to keep the day's minor disasters fromruining my mood. Even while eating that horrible egg—I couldn't verywell throw it away, broken yolk or no; it was my breakfast allotmentand I was hungry—and while hurriedly jury-rigging drapery across thatgaspingly transparent window—one hundred and fifty-three storiesstraight down to slag—I kept going over and over my prepared proposalspeeches, trying to select the most effective one.     I had a Whimsical Approach: Honey, I see there's a nice littleNon-P apartment available up on one seventy-three. And I had aRomantic Approach: Darling, I can't live without you at the moment.Temporarily, I'm madly in love with you. I want to share my lifewith you for a while. Will you be provisionally mine? I even had aStraightforward Approach: Linda, I'm going to be needing a wife for atleast a year or two, and I can't think of anyone I would rather spendthat time with than you.     Actually, though I wouldn't even have admitted this to Linda, much lessto anyone else, I loved her in more than a Non-P way. But even if weboth had been genetically desirable (neither of us were) I knew thatLinda relished her freedom and independence too much to ever contractfor any kind of marriage other than Non-P—Non-Permanent, No Progeny.     So I rehearsed my various approaches, realizing that when the timecame I would probably be so tongue-tied I'd be capable of no morethan a blurted, Will you marry me? and I struggled with zippers andmalfunctioning air-cons, and I managed somehow to leave the apartmentat five minutes to ten.     Linda lived down on the hundred fortieth floor, thirteen stories away.It never took more than two or three minutes to get to her place, so Iwas giving myself plenty of time.     But then the elevator didn't come.     I pushed the button, waited, and nothing happened. I couldn'tunderstand it.     The elevator had always arrived before, within thirty seconds ofthe button being pushed. This was a local stop, with an elevatorthat traveled between the hundred thirty-third floor and the hundredsixty-seventh floor, where it was possible to make connections foreither the next local or for the express. So it couldn't be more thantwenty stories away. And this was a non-rush hour.     I pushed the button again, and then I waited some more. I looked at mywatch and it was three minutes to ten. Two minutes, and no elevator! Ifit didn't arrive this instant, this second, I would be late.     It didn't arrive.     I vacillated, not knowing what to do next. Stay, hoping the elevatorwould come after all? Or hurry back to the apartment and call Linda, togive her advance warning that I would be late?     Ten more seconds, and still no elevator. I chose the secondalternative, raced back down the hall, and thumbed my way into myapartment. I dialed Linda's number, and the screen lit up with whiteletters on black: PRIVACY DISCONNECTION.     Of course! Linda expected me at any moment. And she knew what I wantedto say to her, so quite naturally she had disconnected the phone, tokeep us from being interrupted.     Frantic, I dashed from the apartment again, back down the hall to theelevator, and leaned on that blasted button with all my weight. Even ifthe elevator should arrive right now, I would still be almost a minutelate.     No matter. It didn't arrive.     I would have been in a howling rage anyway, but this impossibilitypiled on top of all the other annoyances and breakdowns of the daywas just too much. I went into a frenzy, and kicked the elevator doorthree times before I realized I was hurting myself more than I washurting the door. I limped back to the apartment, fuming, slammed thedoor behind me, grabbed the phone book and looked up the number ofthe Transit Staff. I dialed, prepared to register a complaint so loudthey'd be able to hear me in sub-basement three.     I got some more letters that spelled: BUSY.  <doc-sep></s>","     Linda is the woman to whom Edmund intends to propose. She is the reason Edmund is trying to get on the elevator and why he ultimately decides to take the stairs, leading him to meet the spy. Linda’s job as an ore-sled operator has left her high-strung when it comes to punctuality. She sends robots out with ore-sleds, and when they don’t return on time, they know that the robot has been captured and has blown itself up to prevent other Projects from learning their technology secrets. Once when Edmund was late for a date with her, Linda worked herself into hysterics, and when he did show up, she refused to speak to Edmund for four days. 	Edmund has spent months building up the courage to propose to Linda, and the day he plans to do it, everything goes awry, making him run late. But he still reaches the elevator in time to reach Linda’s place thirteen stories below his level on time, except the elevator doesn’t come. The longer he waits for the elevator car, the more anxious Edmund grows, knowing that Linda will be so upset if he is late he won’t get to propose.	Edmund loves Linda and would like to have a permanent marriage, but he realizes that Linda enjoys her freedom and independence too much to agree to a permanent marriage. Edmund will settle for a Non-P marriage with her: Non-Permanent, No Progeny. 	Linda anticipates Edmund’s proposal when he calls that morning to invite himself to her apartment. He can tell by her smile on the phone. In preparation for the proposal, Linda has set her phone to PRIVACY DISCONNECTION to prevent their proposal from being interrupted, but this also means that Edmund cannot reach her to let her know he is running late and why. Edmund is convinced that she won’t speak to him again after being late for the proposal and certainly will not accept his proposal. In a last-ditch effort to reach Linda, Edmund decides he can take 208 stairs to reach her, even though he hasn’t taken the stairs since he was 12 years old. This decision, of course, puts him in the path to run into the spy.	Finally, Linda’s job helps Edmund believe he can overtake the spy if he can catch him off guard. Edmund knows enough about her job to talk about it with the spy, keeping his knowledge of wrestling, judo, and karate secret until he can make his move."
"<s>But now there was a spy in the elevator.     When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them.     I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda.     I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late.     He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out.     I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway.     I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old.     Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs?     Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them.     And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps.     Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open.     It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor.     On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty.     I read them. They said:     EMERGENCY ENTRANCE     ELEVATOR SHAFT     AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL     ONLY     KEEP LOCKED     I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed.     As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun.      III     He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft.     Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed.     Unfortunately, he recovered first.     He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound!     I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him.     He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he      didn't     look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment.     His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go?     I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid.     Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army!     But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live?     One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him.     All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun.     And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that?     I nodded.     All right. Let's go.     We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside.     Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips.     I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you.     You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted.     You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee?     Yes.     Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water.     I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner.     Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us.  <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and——     The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it.     It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't      get     disconnected! I told her.     We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen.     I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me      why     the elevator is disconnected?     I-am-sorry-sir-but-that——     Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses.     But now she was actually looking at      me     .     I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life.     She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life?     Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me?     She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time.     In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock.      I'm late!      I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've      done     , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even      speak     to me! Not now! Not after this!     Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout.     I'm not shouting!     Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your—     You      understand     ? I trembled with speechless fury.     She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator.      II     It was my turn to be stunned.     I just gaped at her. A—a what?     A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out.     Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out?     He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them.     That sounded impossible. He      aims     the elevator?     He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him.     Oh, I said. So it might take a while.     She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out.     Oh, no!     She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen.     For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked!     What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected?     Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War.     Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three.     The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000,      everybody     lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion.     And the Treaty of Oslo.     It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only      tactical     atomicweapons could be used. No      strategic     atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed.     Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles.     However, what with all of the      other     treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask.     And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that.  <doc-sep>   CINDERELLA STORY     By ALLEN KIM LANG       What a bank! The First Vice-President       was a cool cat—the elevator and the       money operators all wore earmuffs—was       just as phony as a three-dollar bill!       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit.     He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold.     Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked.     Beg pardon?     What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots.     I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said.     You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll.     That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed.     Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby?     Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank.     The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said.     What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked.     The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay?     It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation?     Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do?     Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you—     You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said.     Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's      Wall Street Journal     , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most.     Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator.  <doc-sep></s>","The story takes place some time after the year 2100, after World Wars I, II, and III have been fought. Due to the population explosion, by 2000, everyone lived in Projects. These Projects are vertically expanded buildings housing people on floors numbering up to two hundred; the Projects are self-contained and self-sufficient. The people in them do not have to go outside where they fear radiation from atomic bombs used in the wars still exists. The Projects provide restaurants, shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners, schools, churches, factories, etc. Food is grown hydroponically. The Projects are protected by force screens that deflect the radiation and all have their own armies that are supposed to protect them from spies from other Projects.	The Projects have advanced technology. Telephones have visual capability that allows callers to see each other; this is how Edmund knows that Linda anticipates his proposal. They have robots that mine and collect ore using ore-sleds. The robots are equipped to self-detonate if they are captured. 	The Projects are suspicious of each other because so many treaties were broken during the Ungentlemanly Gentleman’s War, so Projects aren’t willing to expose themself to the possible dangers of reaching out or allying with other Projects. The Army practices Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparedness in case of danger, allowing the people in the Projects to just live their lives.The Treaty of Oslo provides a sense of safety because it means that Projects will not be bombed in case of war.	Socially, not all marriages are intended to be permanent, especially if the couple is not genetically desirable. There is a Non-P marriage option in this case: Non-Permanent and No Progeny. In Non-P marriages, people contract to marry for a short term, such as one or two years. People are also scared of strangers; hence, the man in the elevator is deemed a spy before anyone even speaks with him."
"<s>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and——     The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it.     It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't      get     disconnected! I told her.     We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen.     I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me      why     the elevator is disconnected?     I-am-sorry-sir-but-that——     Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses.     But now she was actually looking at      me     .     I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life.     She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life?     Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me?     She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time.     In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock.      I'm late!      I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've      done     , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even      speak     to me! Not now! Not after this!     Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout.     I'm not shouting!     Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your—     You      understand     ? I trembled with speechless fury.     She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator.      II     It was my turn to be stunned.     I just gaped at her. A—a what?     A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out.     Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out?     He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them.     That sounded impossible. He      aims     the elevator?     He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him.     Oh, I said. So it might take a while.     She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out.     Oh, no!     She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen.     For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked!     What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected?     Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War.     Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three.     The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000,      everybody     lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion.     And the Treaty of Oslo.     It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only      tactical     atomicweapons could be used. No      strategic     atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed.     Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles.     However, what with all of the      other     treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask.     And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that.  <doc-sep>But now there was a spy in the elevator.     When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them.     I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda.     I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late.     He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out.     I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway.     I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old.     Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs?     Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them.     And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps.     Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open.     It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor.     On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty.     I read them. They said:     EMERGENCY ENTRANCE     ELEVATOR SHAFT     AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL     ONLY     KEEP LOCKED     I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed.     As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun.      III     He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft.     Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed.     Unfortunately, he recovered first.     He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound!     I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him.     He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he      didn't     look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment.     His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go?     I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid.     Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army!     But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live?     One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him.     All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun.     And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that?     I nodded.     All right. Let's go.     We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside.     Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips.     I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you.     You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted.     You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee?     Yes.     Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water.     I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner.     Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us.  <doc-sep>   THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Illustrated by WEST     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         He was dangerously insane. He threatened       to destroy everything that was noble and       decent—including my date with my girl!        When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say.     It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken.     But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock.     Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up.     Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays.     And then the elevator didn't come.  <doc-sep></s>","The spy thwarts Edmund’s planned proposal to Linda, but on a larger scale, he threatens the entire way of life in the Projects. The spy in the elevator isn’t really a spy, but the Army claims he is. It is in the interest of the Army and the Commissions of the Projects for people to believe that the radiation level outside the Projects is too high for people to survive because keeping people fearful keeps them in the Projects and needful of the Army and Commission. The people in the Projects are taught to be fearful of other Projects who might come and try to learn their secrets, military, technology, or otherwise. The Army is trying to capture the spy who has holed himself up in the elevator and is planning to starve him out if necessary. The spy uses logic to try to convince Edmund that he isn’t really a spy, that the Projects don’t really need to worry about spies, and that the Projects aren’t really needed at all.	The spy is actually an atomic engineer from a Project about 80 miles north of Edmund’s. He suspected that the radiation levels after the atomic war have dropped low enough to be safe for people to go outside the Projects. When he asks his Commission to be allowed to study this, he is refused. The Commission knows that if people can leave the Projects, there would be no need for the Commission. To secretly test his theory, the spy left his Project and walked all the way to Edmund’s project without a radiation shield. He is fine, and he is trying to convince the people in the Projects that it is safe to go outside; he compares the Projects to caves and the people to cavemen. He claims that the Projects are stunting society’s progress by keeping everyone “locked down.”"
"<s>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and——     The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it.     It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't      get     disconnected! I told her.     We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen.     I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me      why     the elevator is disconnected?     I-am-sorry-sir-but-that——     Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses.     But now she was actually looking at      me     .     I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life.     She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life?     Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me?     She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time.     In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock.      I'm late!      I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've      done     , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even      speak     to me! Not now! Not after this!     Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout.     I'm not shouting!     Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your—     You      understand     ? I trembled with speechless fury.     She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator.      II     It was my turn to be stunned.     I just gaped at her. A—a what?     A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out.     Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out?     He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them.     That sounded impossible. He      aims     the elevator?     He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him.     Oh, I said. So it might take a while.     She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out.     Oh, no!     She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen.     For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked!     What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected?     Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War.     Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three.     The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000,      everybody     lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion.     And the Treaty of Oslo.     It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only      tactical     atomicweapons could be used. No      strategic     atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed.     Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles.     However, what with all of the      other     treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask.     And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that.  <doc-sep>But now there was a spy in the elevator.     When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them.     I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda.     I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late.     He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out.     I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway.     I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old.     Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs?     Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them.     And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps.     Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open.     It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor.     On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty.     I read them. They said:     EMERGENCY ENTRANCE     ELEVATOR SHAFT     AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL     ONLY     KEEP LOCKED     I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed.     As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun.      III     He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft.     Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed.     Unfortunately, he recovered first.     He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound!     I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him.     He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he      didn't     look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment.     His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go?     I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid.     Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army!     But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live?     One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him.     All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun.     And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that?     I nodded.     All right. Let's go.     We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside.     Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips.     I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you.     You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted.     You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee?     Yes.     Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water.     I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner.     Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us.  <doc-sep>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table.     Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment.     He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors.     I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said.     Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk.     Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.     I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls.     Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily.     Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material.     Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio.     At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.     The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis.     However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found.     The rest will also be!     Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors.     Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion,      The Dance of the Planets     .     That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:   This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep></s>","Edmund is eager to propose to his girlfriend. He truly loves her and would like a long marriage, but he is willing to settle for a Non-P marriage since he knows she values her freedom and independence. After gathering the courage to propose, he makes a date with her one morning, but multiple minor calamities make him run late. Linda is a stickler for punctuality, so on this morning, it is especially important to be on time. When he makes it to the elevator with five minutes to spare, his proposal is thwarted because a spy is holding it up. When he tries to call Linda to let her know he is running late, he can’t get the call through because she has set her phone not to be disturbed. When he learns that a spy is holding up the elevator and might be in there until the Army can starve him out, he decides to brave the 208 stairs down to Linda’s apartment, only to run into the spy there. The spy forces Edmund back to his apartment, where he explains he is not really a spy and that the radiation levels outside are so low it is safe for everyone to leave the projects. Edmund is sure the man is a lunatic despite the logic of his argument. He realizes that his chance to marry Linda is gone; she will never forgive him for being late."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City?     Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt.     Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city?     Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things.     Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette.     Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars.     This whole city is a machine! Eric asked.     Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality.     Eric stared. The idea was staggering.     This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it.     Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely.     Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City?     Yes. The time has come.     But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.     Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here.     Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city.     We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come.     Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?     For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return.     Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now?     Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire.     My brother, Garve. What about him?     He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters?  <doc-sep>    LOST     IN     TRANSLATION     By     LARRY M.     HARRIS         In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same!         Illustrated by Schoenherr        The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets.     An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept.     Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors.     He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing.     In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone.     True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him.     He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates.     But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation.     As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor.     The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green.     He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business.     The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said.     It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded.     I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him.     What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels.     I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions?     Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude.     I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond.     Why did you come to me? he said at last.     Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou.     It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked.     The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command.     Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry.     But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever.     That, after all, was his job.  <doc-sep></s>","Korvin sits in a cell after crash-landing on the planet of the Tr'en, which is populated by an extremely logical and intelligent humanoid race. Due to the speed of their scientific and technological advancements, the Comity of Planets will soon extend them an invitation, but Korvin believes they will not accept their offer. As a representative of Earth Central, he has been sent to Tr'en in order to find a way to prevent its people from marauding and settling other planets. In the days since Korvin's crash, the prison guards provide him with food and teach him the local language through drug hypnosis. He describes the language as stiff and slightly awkward but acknowledges its logical, meticulous construction. After several days imprisoned, a Tr'en named Didyak visits Korvin and informs him that he will be brought to The Ruler. When Korvin meets The Ruler--a massive, formidable Tr'en--he answers his questions to the best of his ability with respect to the logical constructions of the language. Korvin describes the physical appearance of adult humans as well as children, and The Ruler appears confused by the variations in height. The Ruler keeps emphasizing the importance of speaking with exactitude when communicating with the Tr'en. When Korvin claims his purpose on the planet was to crash-land his ship, The Ruler scoffs and orders him connected to a lie-detector machine for the duration of the questioning. After adjusting the lie-detector machine to Korvin's physiology, The Ruler continues his interrogation of Korvin, attempting to determine the true purpose of his mission on Tr'en. Adopting the Tr'en mode of providing extremely logical answers, Korvin claims his mission is to stay alive, which frustrates The Ruler; he claims Korvin is trying to confuse him, so he calls upon his experts to help determine if the machine is faulty and analyze Korvin's responses. As the Tr'en broach the subject of Earth, they start to ask questions about its name, location, and finally, governance. Because the Tr'en receive and obey orders from one Ruler, they are completely perplexed by the concept of democracy where conflicting interests may contribute to a system of self-governance. In fact, they are so stumped by Korvin's responses that they continue this line of questioning for three days and are unsatisfied by what they consider to be his illogical, but truthful answers. On the third day, Korvin takes advantage of their lack of mental insight to escape prison and sends a message back to Earth Central informing them that he has accomplished his mission because the Tr'en will never be able to solve the problem of democracy."
"<s>    LOST     IN     TRANSLATION     By     LARRY M.     HARRIS         In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same!         Illustrated by Schoenherr        The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets.     An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept.     Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors.     He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing.     In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone.     True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him.     He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates.     But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation.     As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor.     The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green.     He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business.     The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said.     It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded.     I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him.     What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels.     I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions?     Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude.     I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond.     Why did you come to me? he said at last.     Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou.     It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked.     The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command.     Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry.     But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever.     That, after all, was his job.  <doc-sep>The name of your planet is Earth? the Ruler asked. A few minutes hadpassed; the experts were clustered around the single chair. Korvin wasstill strapped to the machine; a logical race makes use of a traitor,but a logical race does not trust him.     Sometimes, Korvin said.     It has other names? the Ruler said.     It has no name, Korvin said truthfully. The Tr'en idiom was like theEarthly one; and certainly a planet had no name. People attached namesto it, that was all. It had none of its own.     Yet you call it Earth? the Ruler said.     I do, Korvin said, for convenience.     Do you know its location? the Ruler said.     Not with exactitude, Korvin said.     There was a stir. But you can find it again, the Ruler said.     I can, Korvin said.     And you will tell us about it? the Ruler went on.     I will, Korvin said, so far as I am able.     We will wish to know about weapons, the Ruler said, and about plansand fortifications. But we must first know of the manner of decisionon this planet. Is your planet joined with others in a government ordoes it exist alone?     Korvin nearly smiled. Both, he said.     A short silence was broken by one of the attendant experts. We havetheorized that an underling may be permitted to make some of his owndecisions, leaving only the more extensive ones for the master. Thisseems to us inefficient and liable to error, yet it is a possiblesystem. Is it the system you mean?     Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. It is, he said.     Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme,the Ruler said.     It is, Korvin said.     Who is it that governs? the Ruler said.     The key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful thatthe logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, insteadof going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time.     The answer to that question, Korvin said, cannot be given to you.     Any question of fact has an answer, the Ruler snapped. A paradox isnot involved here; a government exists, and some being is thegovernor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines dothe work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Isthis agreed?     Certainly, Korvin said. It is completely obvious and true.     The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets whichare governed, you have said, the Ruler went on.     True, Korvin said.     Then there is a governor for this system, the Ruler said.     True, Korvin said again.     The ruler sighed gently. Explain this governor to us, he said.     Korvin shrugged. The explanation cannot be given to you.     The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short mutteredconversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back toKorvin. Is the deficiency in you? he said. Are you in some wayunable to describe this government?     It can be described, Korvin said.     Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it tous? the Ruler went on.     I will not, Korvin said.     It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction,Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; theywere no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance.     The plan was taking hold.     The Ruler had finished his conference. You are attempting again toconfuse us, he said.     Korvin shook his head earnestly. I am attempting, he said, not toconfuse you.     Then I ask for an answer, the Ruler said.     I request that I be allowed to ask a question, Korvin said.     The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. Ask it, he said. We shall answerit if we see fit to do so.     Korvin tried to look grateful. Well, then, he said, what is yourgovernment?     The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forwardfrom a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, andbegan. Our government is the only logical form of government, hesaid in a high, sweet tenor. The Ruler orders all, and his subjectsobey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids inthe speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'enact instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previousRuler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steadyjudgment.     You have heard our government defined, the Ruler said. Now, youwill define yours for us.     Korvin shook his head. If you insist, he said, I'll try it. But youwon't understand it.     The Ruler frowned. We shall understand, he said. Begin. Who governsyou?     None, Korvin said.     But you are governed?     Korvin nodded. Yes.     Then there is a governor, the Ruler insisted.     True, Korvin said. But everyone is the governor.     Then there is no government, the Ruler said. There is no singledecision.     No, Korvin said equably, there are many decisions binding on all.     Who makes them binding? the Ruler asked. Who forces you to acceptthese decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings?     Many of them are unfavorable, Korvin said. But we are not forced toaccept them.     Do you act against your own interests?     Korvin shrugged. Not knowingly, he said. The Ruler flashed a look atthe technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see theirexpression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them,perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truthwasn't making any sense. I told you you wouldn't understand it, hesaid.     It is a defect in your explanation, the Ruler almost snarled.     My explanation is as exact as it can be, he said.     The Ruler breathed gustily. Let us try something else, he said.Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mindhas been theorized, though we have met with no examples—     Neither have we, Korvin said. We are all individuals, likeyourselves.     But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions—     We have no need of one, Korvin said calmly.     Ah, the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. And whynot?     We call our form of government      democracy     , Korvin said. It meansthe rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler.     One of the experts piped up suddenly. The beings themselves rule eachother? he said. This is clearly impossible; for, no one being canhave the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without hisforce, there can be no effective rule.     That is our form of government, Korvin said.     You are lying, the expert said.     One of the technicians chimed in: The machine tells us—     Then the machine is faulty, the expert said. It will be corrected.     Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd takestudying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defectsto correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foreseeanother stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was gettinghomesick.     It took three days—but boredom never really had a chance to set in.Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hopedfor; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a differentmethod of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements.     Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled.     On the third day Korvin escaped.     It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the mostlogical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a consciousmind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is tomake the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that,and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated.That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had tointervene somewhere. And it couldn't.     Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that theproblem      was     insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort ofthinking.     Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restrictedto the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mentalsciences would have given them the key to his existence, and hisentire plan, within seconds.     But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for thisparticular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en.     The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on hisescape without any annoying distractions in the way of deepreflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby—allquite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little morecomplicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and thenspace-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell.     He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionictalents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receivemessages, but he could send them. He sent one now.       Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to comemarauding out into space too soon. They've been given foodfor thought—nice indigestible food that's going to stick intheir craws until they finally manage to digest it. But theycan't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to bedemocratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. Whatkeeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps usobeying laws that make things inconvenient for us? Sheerself-interest, of course—but try to make a Tr'en see it!         With one government and one language, they just weren'tequipped for translation. They were too efficient physicallyto try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences,no insight into my mind or their own—and that means notranslation.         But—damn it—I wish I were home already.         I'm bored absolutely stiff!       THE END   <doc-sep>The Ruler looked to his technicians for a signal, and nodded onreceiving it. You will tell an untruth now, he said. Are youstanding or sitting?     I am standing, Korvin said.     The technicians gave another signal. The Ruler looked, in his frowningmanner, reasonably satisfied. The machine, he announced, has beenadjusted satisfactorily to your physiology. The questioning will nowcontinue.     Korvin swallowed again. The test hadn't really seemed extensive enoughto him. But, after all, the Tr'en knew their business, better thananyone else could know it. They had the technique and the logic andthe training.     He hoped they were right.     The Ruler was frowning at him. Korvin did his best to look receptive.Why did you land your ship on this planet? the Ruler said.     My job required it, Korvin said.     The Ruler nodded. Your job is to crash your ship, he said. It iswasteful but the machines tell me it is true. Very well, then; weshall find out more about your job. Was the crash intentional?     Korvin looked sober. Yes, he said.     The Ruler blinked. Very well, he said. Was your job ended when theship crashed? The Tr'en word, of course, wasn't      ended     , nor did itmean exactly that. As nearly as Korvin could make out, it meantdisposed of for all time.     No, he said.     What else does your job entail? the Ruler said.     Korvin decided to throw his first spoke into the wheel. Stayingalive.     The Ruler roared. Do not waste time with the obvious! he shouted.Do not try to trick us; we are a logical and scientific race! Answercorrectly.     I have told the truth, Korvin said.     But it is not—not the truth we want, the Ruler said.     Korvin shrugged. I replied to your question, he said. I did notknow that there was more than one kind of truth. Surely the truth isthe truth, just as the Ruler is the Ruler?     I— The Ruler stopped himself in mid-roar. You try to confuse theRuler, he said at last, in an approximation of his usual one. Butthe Ruler will not be confused. We have experts in matters oflogic—the Tr'en word seemed to mean      right-saying     —who will advisethe Ruler. They will be called.     Korvin's guards were standing around doing nothing of importance nowthat their captor was strapped down in the lie-detector. The Rulergestured and they went out the door in a hurry.     The Ruler looked down at Korvin. You will find that you cannot trickus, he said. You will find that such fiddling—      chulad-like     Korvintranslated—attempts will get you nowhere.     Korvin devoutly hoped so.  <doc-sep></s>","The Ruler is the sole governor of the Tr'en race. Characterized by their humanoid appearance, Tr'en are tall, greenish, and have four fingers. The Ruler himself is taller than most at seven-feet tall and is quite broad. The Tr'en are very logical and speak in a language almost mathematical in its clarity and precision. The Ruler epitomizes Tr'en commitment to logical inquiry. At first, The Ruler grills Korvin on his name, his race, his sex, and whether or not his appearance is normal for humanity. When Korvin's response regarding the variations in height amongst human adults and children, The Ruler is confounded. He also disbelieves Korvin's response regarding his purpose on Tr'en. Because of this, The Ruler orders Korvin to be hooked up to a lie detector. After adjusting the detector to Korvin's physiology, Korvin launches into a line of questioning regarding planet Earth, specifically the governance of it. When the experts monitoring the lie detector's reactions to Korvin's answers become baffled by his truth-telling in the face of seemingly illogical answers, The Ruler seemingly throws in the towel and lets the experts investigate the idea that Korvin is either lying or the machine is broken. In reality, Korvin has exploited a flaw in their logic--although they are masters of science, they have not mastered mental science. Only a grasp of mental science would allow the Tr'en to fathom humankind's embrace of democracy."
"<s>    LOST     IN     TRANSLATION     By     LARRY M.     HARRIS         In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same!         Illustrated by Schoenherr        The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets.     An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept.     Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors.     He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing.     In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone.     True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him.     He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates.     But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation.     As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor.     The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green.     He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business.     The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said.     It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded.     I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him.     What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels.     I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions?     Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude.     I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond.     Why did you come to me? he said at last.     Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou.     It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked.     The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command.     Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry.     But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever.     That, after all, was his job.  <doc-sep>Commander Eagan said, You'd better find some new way of amusingyourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?     Isobar said, I seen it. But if you think—     It says, stated Eagan deliberately, '      In order that work or restperiods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby orderedthat the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments mustbe discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander     ,' Thatmeans you, Jones!     But, dingbust it! keened Isobar, it don't disturb nobody for me toplay my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate goodmusic, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—     But the Dome, pointed out Commander Eagan, has an air-conditioningsystem which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans ofyour—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entirestructure.     He suddenly seemed to gain stature.     No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entireorganization for your own—er—amusement.     But— said Isobar.     No!     Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already.If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the lastamusement which lightened his moments of freedom—     Look, Commander! he pleaded, I tell you what I'll do. I won't bothernobody. I'll go Outside and play it—     Outside! Eagan stared at him incredulously. Are you mad? How aboutthe Grannies?     Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of lifefound by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was anabbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunarexployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it wasan understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain lowintelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding andimplacable foe.     Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had everyet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; sciencewas completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition ofGraniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, thatthe carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of somethingharder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could bepenetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame,by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discoveredatomo-needle dispenser.     All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:     They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome, he said, fora 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right backinside—     No! said Commander Eagan flatly. Absolutely,      no     ! I have no timefor such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen,good afternoon!     He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.     Well, he said, one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't playyour doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all theawful screeching wails—     But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfectfury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and fromhis lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley lookedstartled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violentprofanity.     Oh, dagnab it! fumed Isobar Jones. Oh, tarnation and dingbust!Oh—      fiddlesticks     !      II     And so, chuckled Riley, he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hotoven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was.     Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr.Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older mannodded commiseratingly.     It is funny, yes, he agreed, but at the same time it is notaltogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, ourpoor Isobar.     Yeah, I know, said Riley, but, hell, we all get a little bithomesick now and then. He ought to learn to—     Excuse me, my boy, interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is somethingdeeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call:      weltschmertz     . There is no accurate translation in English. It means'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that butintensified a thousandfold.     It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frameof mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on whichthey find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad actsof valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery....     You mean, demanded Sparks anxiously, Isobar ain't got all hisbuttons?     Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morassof despair. He may try      anything     to retrieve his lost happiness, ridhis soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a cryinghunger—By the way, where is he now?     Below, I guess. In his quarters.     Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he willfind peace and forgetfulness.     But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power thegiftie gi'en him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.     Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, hewas acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtiveculprit.     Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with DomeCommander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein wasencased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from theirpegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.     So I can't play you, huh? he muttered darkly. It disturbs the peaceo' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll      see     about that!     And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from theroom, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge      impervite     gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorwayto Outside.     On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradleadjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. Buttoday they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might ventureout. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might haveto get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian ofthe entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.     Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exudingan aura of propriety.     Very well, Wilkins, he said. I'll take over now. You may go to themeeting.     Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.     Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?     Isobar's eyebrows arched.     You mean you haven't been notified?     Notified of      what     ?     Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that Iwould take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?     I ain't, puzzled Wilkins, heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought tocall the office, maybe?     And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. That—er—won'tbe necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just runalong. I'll watch this entrance for you.     We-e-ell, said Wilkins, if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep asharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come backsudden-like.     I will, promised Isobar, don't worry.  <doc-sep>Looks okay to me, I said. Quade passed a gauntlet over his faceplate.It's real. I can blur it with a smudged visor. When it blurs, it'ssolid.     The landscape beyond the black corona left by our landing rockets wasunimpressive. The rocky desert was made up of silicon and iron oxide,so it looked much the same as a terrestrial location. Yellowish-whitesand ran up to and around reddish brown rock clawing into the pinksunlight.     I don't understand it, Quade admitted. Transphasia hits you a foulas soon as you let it into the airlock.     Apparently, Quade,      this     thing is going to creep up on us.     Don't sound smug, Captain. It's pitty-pattying behind you too.     The keening call across the surface of consciousness postponed my reply.     The wail was ominously forlorn, defiant of description. I turned myhead around slowly inside my helmet, not even sure that I had heard it.     But what else can you do with a wail but      hear     it?     Quade nodded. I've felt this before. It usually hits sooner. Let'strace it.     I don't like this, I admitted. It's not at all what I expected fromwhat you said about transphasia. It must be something else.     It couldn't be anything else. I know what to expect. You don't. Youmay begin smelling sensations, tasting sounds, hearing sights, seeingtastes, touching odors—or any other combination. Don't let it botheryou.     Of course not. I'll soothe my nerves by counting little shocks oflanolin jumping over a loud fence.     Quade grinned behind his faceplate. Good idea.     Then you can have it. I'm going to try keeping my eyes open andstaying alive.     There was no reply.     His expression was tart and greasy despite all his light talk, andI knew mine was the same. I tested the security rope between ourpressure suits. It was a taut and virile bass.     We scaled a staccato of rocks, our suits grinding pepper against ourhides.     The musk summit rose before us, a minor-key horizon with a shiftingtreble for as far as I could smell. It was primitive beauty that madeyou feel shocking pink inside. The most beautiful vista I had evertasted, it couldn't be dulled even by the sensation of beef broth undermy skin.     Is this transphasia? I asked in awe.     It always has been before, Quade remarked. Ready to swallow yourwords about this being something an old hand wouldn't recognize,Captain?     I'm swallowing no words until I find out precisely how they tastehere.     Not a bad taste. They're pretty. Or haven't you noticed?     Quade, you're right! About the colors anyway. This reminds me of anilliscope recording from a cybernetic translator.     It should. I don't suppose we could understand each other if it wasn'tfor our morphistudy courses in reading cross-sense translations ofCentauri blushtalk and the like.     It became difficult to understand him, difficult to try talking in theface of such splendor. You never really appreciate colors until yousmell them for the first time.  <doc-sep></s>","After Korvin crash-lands on Tr’en, he is captured and imprisoned for several days before he wakes up. During that time, the prison guards teach him the Tr’en language via hypnopædic language instruction. He learns the language is closer to mathematical metalanguage and is centered in logic and clarity. As a result, Korvin has to adjust the way he speaks in order to make sure to convey what he really means in his conversations with Didyak and when he responds to The Ruler's line of questioning. Because the Tr'en language requires perfect logic, Korvin's answers to The Ruler's questions confuse The Ruler and his group of experts that examine the lie detector and confer to determine if Korvin is telling the truth or beating the system somehow. Translation ultimately saves Korvin since the Tr'en are unable to logically process the concept of democracy, and they will spend an endless amount of time trying to solve that problem instead of advancing to the point where they will maraud and settle others in the Comity of Planets."
"<s>    LOST     IN     TRANSLATION     By     LARRY M.     HARRIS         In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same!         Illustrated by Schoenherr        The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets.     An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept.     Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors.     He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing.     In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone.     True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him.     He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates.     But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation.     As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor.     The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green.     He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business.     The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said.     It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded.     I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him.     What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels.     I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions?     Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude.     I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond.     Why did you come to me? he said at last.     Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou.     It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked.     The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command.     Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry.     But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever.     That, after all, was his job.  <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us.     The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended.     We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way.       Ha, ha     , Skkiru said to himself.      Ha, ha, ha!       But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes?     Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient!     Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man.     We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance.     Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma!     Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff.     But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud....     The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to      stop     rain.     He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship.     What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury.  <doc-sep></s>","Didyak is a Tr'en from the planet Tr'en, and he is tall, slightly green, vaguely humanoid, and has cat-like pupils. Didyak is the first Tr'en that Korvin encounters after waking up in the days following his crash. Having been educated in the Tr'en language through hypnosis, Korvin is able to communicate with Didyak, and he does so, making sure to address with the utmost respect according to Tr'en customs. Didyak carries a small weapon that is translucent and looks like a pistol; he also carries a small knife attached to his belt. Didyak's speech is stiff and slightly awkward, much like the rest of the Tr'en, and he speaks with very careful attention paid to the construction of each sentence in order to express perfect logic. Like the other Tr'en, Didyak also has fifty-eight pointy teeth, at which Korvin tries not to stare. The Ruler has sent Didyak to bring Korvin for an audience with him so that he may learn more about Earth."
"<s>    LOST     IN     TRANSLATION     By     LARRY M.     HARRIS         In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same!         Illustrated by Schoenherr        The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets.     An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept.     Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors.     He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing.     In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone.     True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him.     He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates.     But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation.     As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor.     The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green.     He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business.     The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said.     It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded.     I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him.     What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels.     I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions?     Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude.     I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond.     Why did you come to me? he said at last.     Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou.     It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked.     The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command.     Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry.     But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever.     That, after all, was his job.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio.     Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers.     Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device.     I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly.     Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune.     Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears.     He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door.     Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't      saying     I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down?     Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet.     To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!     This what? Johnson blurted out.     In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!     The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar.     And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?     It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact.     The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet.     Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language.     Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?     Johnson recoiled. No—no,      of course not     . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details.     Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings?     Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion.     For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life.     Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me?     For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience.     Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty.     Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!     Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first?  <doc-sep></s>","Korvin works for Earth Central and flies to the planet Tr'en on its behalf. Tr'en is a planet populated by the Tr'en race, a tall humanoid people with greenish skin, fifty-eight pointy teeth, and a unique language centered on the idea of logic. They are an extremely advanced race in terms of science and technology and others in the Comity of Planets consider them a possible threat seeing as they are in the atomic era and are on the brink of developing space travel. After Korvin crash-lands on Tr'en he sits in a prison cell noted for its smelly air, and, more importantly, its efficiency of design. Besides the Tr'en, the only known living creature on Tr'en is the chulad, a small creature that looks like a large deathwatch beetle. The Room of the Ruler is large and square, and everything inside the room is brown including the walls, furniture, and drapes. In terms of furniture, Korvin observes a large chair where The Ruler sits, many kneeling benches, and a small table near the chair. When two technicians bring in a lie detector test for Korvin, he notices that it is large, squat, and metallic and has wheels, dials, blinking lights, tubes, wires, and a seat with armrests and straps. The technicians use these straps to tie Korvin into the machine."
"<s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls.     Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since.     No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other,      that     long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?     He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years....     Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least.     Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.     But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left      something     behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—     If the ship left and some of them stayed.     Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know.     How about the other planets? Ball asked.     The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but      it     has a CO  2  atmosphere.     How about moons?     Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out.  <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily.     Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it.     People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement.     One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes.     May I go see him?     Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you.     Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices.  <doc-sep></s>","Jonathan Fawkes dropped off the only member of his crew on Mars after he got space sickness, so he was alone on the journey to Jupiter. He had been charged with dropping off tobacco seed to see if they could cultivate it on the colonies in Jupiter. However, along the way, he got tired at the wheel of the ship, and, during his nap, crashed into an asteroid. When he awoke, a beautiful blonde woman named Ann was standing over him. They introduce themselves, and she explains that she’s one of the 27 female survivors of their crash over three years ago. Ann sees a horde of centaurs coming over the plains, so she and Jonathan crawl to the foothills, where they can’t be followed. She spears a creature along the way and hooks it on her belt. Jonathan attempts to escape, as he’s uncomfortable around women and wants a cigarette, but she takes him down. They run into nine more women who pin him to the ground. They start to carry him the four miles back to their base, but he asks to walk instead as he’s humiliated. They trudge through the foothills, only stopping once to throw stones at the pestering centaurs, before finally reaching home. They treat Jonathan like a king, pulling out a chair for him at the table, and endlessly complimenting him. They eat inside the dining room of their wrecked ship, and Jonathan watches the wild, Amazonian-like women in horror. Their leader, a big woman named Billy, halts all the flirting and tells Jonathan that he needs to rest in order to feel better. After his belly’s full, he quickly falls asleep, and they carry him upstairs to bed, attempting to take off his shoes which he refuses. The next morning, he wakes up and walks outside with a cane, exaggerating his injuries so as to be treated better. He sits beneath a tree and is soon greeted by Ann. She grabs him and they make to embrace but are caught by the rest of the girls. Billy splits them up and says it’s time to figure out who gets him. The women fight and argue their cases, and Jonathan slips away, running back to his ship. Another cruiser is sat down next to his own, the Interstellar Cosmography Society scrawled on its side. He meets Dr. Boynton and another man who offer to rescue him. Jonathan refuses them, tells them there’s nothing to worry about, then grabs his tobacco seeds, cigarettes, and tools, and makes his way back to the women. "
"<s>While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffensremained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked drylyat the walls.     Well, he said, whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since.     No? How can you be sure? Steffens grunted. A space-borne race wasroaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spearsat each other,      that     long ago. And this planet is only a parsec fromVarius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built theseget to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?     He kicked at the sand distractedly. And most important, where are theynow? A race with several thousand years....     Fifteen thousand, Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least.     Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realizednow how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.     But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last?There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a needto build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left      something     behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—     If the ship left and some of them stayed.     Steffens nodded. But then the ship must have come back. Where did itgo? He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-blackmidday sky. We'll never know.     How about the other planets? Ball asked.     The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. Thethird planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but      it     has a CO  2  atmosphere.     How about moons?     Steffens shrugged. We could try them and find out.  <doc-sep>Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance andbegan circling lazily.     Sooner than you think, Max told her. We've discovered a castawaycolony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just livinghere. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it.     People on Minos? Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive withexcitement.     One of them is down in the medical department, June said. He'll beout in twenty minutes.     May I go see him?     Sure, said Max. Show him the way to the dining hall when he getsout. Tell him we sent you.     Right! She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to afire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a halfof isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces,the sound of unfamiliar voices.  <doc-sep>  The Happy Castaway     BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL     Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough     enough. But to face the horrors of such a     planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes'     terrible predicament; plenty of food—and     twenty seven beautiful girls for companions.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship.     You're not dead?     I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals.     Is—is anything broken? she asked.     Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer.     She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists.     Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage.     He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said.     The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.     The girl shrugged her shoulders.     I don't know.     You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie.     I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid.     We? he looked back at her.     Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists.     I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies?     She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.     Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said.     We hit this asteroid.     But that was three years ago.     Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear.     Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said.     I think so, he said.  <doc-sep></s>","The Happy Castaway by Robert E. McDowell takes place during the year 3372 on an asteroid between Mars and Jupiter. The asteroid is mostly prairie and sprawling plains, but there are also foothills and steep mountains. In the mountains, there is also a mountain emitting white smoke. The centaurs, the Natives on the asteroid, live in the prairie and plains, as they are unable to successfully travel through the hills and mountains. The stranded women live beyond the mountains, where the centaurs can’t reach them, and have transformed the wreckage of their ship into a livable base. There is a grand table and weighted chairs to serve food at, a kitchen supposedly where they can cook the food they’ve hunted and foraged, as well as areas to sleep. There are rivers that run through the asteroid teeming with fish. Ann caught a rabbit-like creature, so there are other creatures to be hunted. "
"<s>Jonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerkedaround. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Theirfeatures were grim. He said: I don't feel so well after all.     It don't wash, said Billy. It's time for a showdown.     Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde takeher stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at amenacing angle. She said in an angry voice: He's mine. I found him.Leave him alone.     Where do you get that stuff? cried Olga. Share and share alike, sayI.     We could draw straws for him, suggested the green-eyed blonde.     Look here, Jonathan broke in. I've got some say in the matter.     You have not, snapped Billy. You'll do just as we say. She took astep toward him.     Jonathan edged away in consternation.     He's going to run! Olga shouted.     Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to theplain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothingrelaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettesat the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.     At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his spaceship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted andtore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside thewreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscriptionin silver letters: INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.     Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced insurprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon RayRifle in his hand.     I'm Jonathan Fawkes, said the castaway as he panted up, pilot forUniversal. I was wrecked.     A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxedmustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in ayellow composition holder. He said, I'm Doctor Boynton. He had arich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. We are members of theInterstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make acursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returningwhen we sighted the wreck.     I say, said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gungingerly, respectfully. We're a week overdue now, he said. If youhave any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'dbest be getting them aboard.  <doc-sep>  The Happy Castaway     BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL     Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough     enough. But to face the horrors of such a     planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes'     terrible predicament; plenty of food—and     twenty seven beautiful girls for companions.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship.     You're not dead?     I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals.     Is—is anything broken? she asked.     Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer.     She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists.     Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage.     He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said.     The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.     The girl shrugged her shoulders.     I don't know.     You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie.     I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid.     We? he looked back at her.     Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists.     I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies?     She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.     Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said.     We hit this asteroid.     But that was three years ago.     Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear.     Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said.     I think so, he said.  <doc-sep>Jonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in hisarms.     Catch a hold, said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girlsvolunteered with a rush. Hoist! said Billy. They lifted him like asleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,where they deposited him on the bed.     Ann said to Olga; Help me with these boots. But they resisted everytug. It's no use, groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her brightyellow hair back from her eyes. His feet have swollen. We'll have tocut them off.     At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope.           Cut off whose feet?      he cried in alarm.     Not your feet, silly, said Ann. Your boots.     Lay a hand on those boots, he scowled; and I'll make me another pairout of your hides. They set me back a week's salary. Having deliveredhimself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep.     Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. And this, she cried is whatwe've been praying for during the last three years.     The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of acane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glancedall around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, hepresumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruitsand berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. Hewalked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should behanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped.     He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously bytwenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry itoff in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath theshade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might beyears before they were rescued.     As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or jointhe centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plainson the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde wasambling toward him.     How's the invalid? she said, seating herself beside him.     Hot, isn't it? he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed theflat of her hand on his chest and shoved.       Ooof!      he grunted. He satdown rather more forcibly than he had risen.     Don't get up because of me, she informed him. It's my turn to cook,but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan doyou know that you are irresistible? She seized his shoulders, staredinto his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had ahungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his browwith his sleeve.     Suppose the rest should come, he said in an embarrassed voice.     They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Youreyes, she said, are like deep mysterious pools.     Sure enough? said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began torecover his nerve.     She said, You're the best looking thing. She rumpled his hair. Ican't keep my eyes off you.     Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. Ouch! He winced. He hadforgotten his sore muscles.     I forgot, said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.You're hurt.     He pulled her back down. Not so you could notice it, he grinned.     Well! came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. We're      all     glad to hear that!  <doc-sep></s>","Ann Clotilde is one of the 27 women who crashed into the asteroid on their way to Jupiter and survived. She has blonde hair and a cute, button nose. She wears sandals and a frayed blue frock. She finds Jonathan Fawkes after he crashes during one of her hunting expeditions. She walked to him to see if he was dead or not but soon rescues him from the oncoming horde of centaurs. She quickly spears a rabbit-like creature and attaches it to her belt. She takes him down when he attempts to escape, proving her Amazonian strength. The other girls come when they see her and fawn over Jonathan as well. Together, they half-carry, half-drag him back to their ship, where they feed him. The next day, Ann meets him beneath a tree and essentially throws herself at him. He receives her gladly, but they soon stop when they are caught by the others. Jonathan runs off, leaving Ann behind. "
"<s>Jonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, Do any of you know how togrow tobacco?     They glanced at each other in perplexity.     I like it here, continued Jonathan. I'm not going back.     What? cried the three explorers in one breath.     I'm going to stay, he repeated. I only came back here after thecigarettes.     But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it backin the space lanes, said Doctor Boynton. You don't possibly expect tobe picked up before then!     Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobaccoseed, and cigarettes.     Odd. Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. Though ifI remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits duringthe medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to thewilderness to escape the temptation of      women     .     Jonathan laughed outright.     You are sure you won't return, young man?     He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.He said, You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stopone of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swingsback in the space ways. I'll have a load for them.     Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent porthole. What a strange fellow, he murmured. He was just in time to seethe castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction fromwhich he had come.     Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-sevenof them.   <doc-sep>  The Happy Castaway     BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL     Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough     enough. But to face the horrors of such a     planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes'     terrible predicament; plenty of food—and     twenty seven beautiful girls for companions.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship.     You're not dead?     I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals.     Is—is anything broken? she asked.     Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer.     She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists.     Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage.     He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said.     The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.     The girl shrugged her shoulders.     I don't know.     You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie.     I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid.     We? he looked back at her.     Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists.     I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies?     She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.     Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said.     We hit this asteroid.     But that was three years ago.     Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear.     Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said.     I think so, he said.  <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses.     Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke.     At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots.     I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed.     They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner.     They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal.     The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily.     Someone hailed them from the space ship.     We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors.     A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship.     A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued!     No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us.     Oh, came a disappointed chorus.     He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing.     Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good?     I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.     A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved.     He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.     With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen.  <doc-sep></s>","The Jupiter Food-growers Association enlisted many women to travel out to the colonies to serve as wives and promote happiness as well as breed a new generation. However, on their way to Jupiter, their spaceship crashed into an asteroid, and only 27 of the women survived. In the three years since the crash, these women have learned to hunt, forage, and defend themselves against the native species there, Centaurs. They developed a society based on sharing and generosity, shown through their individual chores that all serve the greater good. However, the two things they wished for were a rescue mission or a man. When Jonathan Fawkes arrived, their second wish came true. After they all met him, they each complimented him incessantly and offered him more food, drinks, and other sweet amenities. Being the first man they’d seen in over three years, he was quite the rarity. "
"<s>  The Happy Castaway     BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL     Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough     enough. But to face the horrors of such a     planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes'     terrible predicament; plenty of food—and     twenty seven beautiful girls for companions.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]       Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship.     You're not dead?     I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals.     Is—is anything broken? she asked.     Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer.     She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists.     Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage.     He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said.     The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter.     The girl shrugged her shoulders.     I don't know.     You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie.     I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid.     We? he looked back at her.     Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists.     I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies?     She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash.     Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said.     We hit this asteroid.     But that was three years ago.     Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear.     Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said.     I think so, he said.  <doc-sep>Jonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerkedaround. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Theirfeatures were grim. He said: I don't feel so well after all.     It don't wash, said Billy. It's time for a showdown.     Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde takeher stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at amenacing angle. She said in an angry voice: He's mine. I found him.Leave him alone.     Where do you get that stuff? cried Olga. Share and share alike, sayI.     We could draw straws for him, suggested the green-eyed blonde.     Look here, Jonathan broke in. I've got some say in the matter.     You have not, snapped Billy. You'll do just as we say. She took astep toward him.     Jonathan edged away in consternation.     He's going to run! Olga shouted.     Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to theplain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothingrelaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettesat the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace.     At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his spaceship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted andtore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside thewreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscriptionin silver letters: INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY.     Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced insurprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon RayRifle in his hand.     I'm Jonathan Fawkes, said the castaway as he panted up, pilot forUniversal. I was wrecked.     A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxedmustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in ayellow composition holder. He said, I'm Doctor Boynton. He had arich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. We are members of theInterstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make acursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returningwhen we sighted the wreck.     I say, said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gungingerly, respectfully. We're a week overdue now, he said. If youhave any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'dbest be getting them aboard.  <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses.     Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke.     At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots.     I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed.     They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner.     They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal.     The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily.     Someone hailed them from the space ship.     We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors.     A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship.     A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued!     No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us.     Oh, came a disappointed chorus.     He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing.     Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good?     I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats.     A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved.     He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past.     With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen.  <doc-sep></s>","At first, Jonathan Fawkes claims that he is most uncomfortable around women. Despite being a galavanting spaceman known around the universe for his strength and bravery, he is in awe and possibly fearful only of women. When he first arrives on the asteroid and encounters Ann, he is immensely uncomfortable with her gaze on him, and that continues as he discovers that she can overpower him in his weakened state quite easily. As the rest of the stranded women arrive, they all ogle at him and tell him how incredibly handsome he is. This only makes him even more uncomfortable. However, by the end of the story, he wraps his arms around Ann and would have embraced her had they not been caught by the others. The rest of the women vie for his attention, and he runs off back to his spaceship. At first, the reader might think it’s because he needs to get away from the girls or that he can’t handle the pressure. However, his encounter with the potential rescuers proves that he is now far more comfortable around the women. He ran back to his spaceship to grab his cigarettes and tobacco seeds. He always planned to return to the women and does not tell the rescuers about them. Although at first, he was terrified of the girls, by the end he too is infatuated and loves the situation at hand. "
"<s>     THE STAR-SENT KNAVES       BY KEITH LAUMER     Illustrated by Gaughan     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When the Great Galactic Union first encounters     Earth ... is this what is going to happen?      I     Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one.     Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings.     That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you.     Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers.     Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it—     Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today!     Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded.     Now, wait a minute— Kelly started.     What's that? Snithian cut in.     You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night—     Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped.     —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished.     Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside.     The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken.     By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault.     Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees.     I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover.     Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door.     Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work?     A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded.     Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet.  <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  <doc-sep>  UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep></s>","Dan Slane is in Clyde Snithian's office; he proposes that, in response to a recent slew of art thefts, he guard Snithian's art vault overnight in addition to the external security he has. Dan is suspicious about the thefts and has a theory that the crooks are entering from within the vaults, perhaps through time travel. Snithian refuses to hire Dan, but Kelly, head of security, hires him in secret. That night, Dan guards from within the vault, keeping himself occupied with sleep and food, when a strange, cage like contraption appears out of thin air. Two men emerge, named Manny and Fiorello, and Dan hesitantly confronts them. While Dan speaks to them, Kelly's voice suddenly booms from a hidden speaker in the room, under the impression that Dan had been in on the thefts. Dan wrestles Manny and Fiorello off and manages to take control of the carrier and escape. Not knowing how to control it, Dan finds himself passing through many rooms and settings, until the carrier finally settles in an office room of a skyscraper. There, Dan meets Blote, a strange, giant-like creature, who asks him what happened to Manny and Fiorello. Blote, the apparent head of the art schemes, requests that Dan join the team to replace them. Dan refuses, and asks about the carrier, referring to it as a time machine; Blote is perplexed, unaware of the concept of a time machine, and demands that Dan find one in exchange for a reward, and for avoiding trouble for trespassing. Dan, unsure of where to retrieve a time machine, bluffs and manages to take Blote back to Snithian's, where he abandons him. Suddenly, Dan hears a siren, and the carrier travels to a park. The carrier becomes frosted over as a man emerges to confront him. The man introduces himself as an agent of the Inter-Dimensional Monitor Service."
"<s>     THE STAR-SENT KNAVES       BY KEITH LAUMER     Illustrated by Gaughan     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When the Great Galactic Union first encounters     Earth ... is this what is going to happen?      I     Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one.     Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings.     That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you.     Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers.     Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it—     Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today!     Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded.     Now, wait a minute— Kelly started.     What's that? Snithian cut in.     You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night—     Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped.     —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished.     Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside.     The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken.     By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault.     Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees.     I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover.     Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door.     Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work?     A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded.     Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet.  <doc-sep>  THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  <doc-sep>   The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  <doc-sep></s>","The first part of the story takes place in Snithian's headquarters, where he speaks to Dan in his office. Later that night, Dan sleeps in the art vault, a small room with gray walls that support paintings wrapped in brown paper. The room contains a bunk, fridge, and bookshelf. Once Dan escapes through the carrier, he finds himself passing through different rooms, including a kitchen, hallway, and bedroom. The carrier then takes him to an office in a skyscraper, with posters, framed paintings, and a desk, where he finds Blote. After returning back to Snithian's, the carrier takes him to a large park."
"<s>Your superiors? Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe hecould reach the machine and try a getaway—     I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly, the beachball said,following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inchyellow cylinder lying on the desk. Until the carrier is fueled, I'mafraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd bestintroduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader FourthClass, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to developnew sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entireSecondary Quadrant.     But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That      has     to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could justmaterialize out of thin air like that.     You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan, Blote said. Youshouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel,that everyone has. Now— Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper—I'llmake a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in goodcondition for me. And in return—           I'm     supposed to supply      you     with a time machine?     Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. I dislike pointing it out,Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegalentry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless someembarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself woulddeal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under thedesk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan.     Whereas, on the other hand, Blote's bass voice went on, you and megot the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you upwith an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, Ishould say. What about it, Dan?     Ah, let me see, Dan temporized. Time machine. Time machine—     Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan, Blote rumbled ominously.     I'd better look in the phone book, Dan suggested.     Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it.     Time, time. Let's see.... He brightened. Time, Incorporated; localbranch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street.     A sales center? Blote inquired. Or a manufacturing complex?     Both, Dan said. I'll just nip over and—     That won't be necessary, Dan, Blote said. I'll accompany you. Hetook the directory, studied it.     Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to noticeit. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from alarge. He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuelcells. Now, off to gather in the time machine. He took his place inthe carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. Come, Dan.Get a wiggle on.  <doc-sep>     THE STAR-SENT KNAVES       BY KEITH LAUMER     Illustrated by Gaughan     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When the Great Galactic Union first encounters     Earth ... is this what is going to happen?      I     Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one.     Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings.     That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you.     Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers.     Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it—     Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today!     Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded.     Now, wait a minute— Kelly started.     What's that? Snithian cut in.     You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night—     Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped.     —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished.     Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside.     The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken.     By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault.     Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees.     I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover.     Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door.     Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work?     A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded.     Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet.  <doc-sep>Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to apoint—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. Kindly directme, Dan, Blote demanded. Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe yousaid.     I don't know the town very well, Dan said, but Maple's over thatway.     Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Danlooked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure.     Over there, he said. Blote directed the machine as it swoopedsmoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated.     Better let me take over now, Dan suggested. I want to be sure toget us to the right place.     Very well, Dan.     Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimlyseen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cagegrew even fainter. Best we remain unnoticed, he explained.     The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifyinglandmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barelyvisible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambersalong both sides of the passage at once.     Ah, this must be the assembly area, he exclaimed. I see the machinesemploy a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers.     That's right, Dan said, staring through the haziness. This is wherethey do time.... He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veeredleft, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulousfigures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessedwrong—     The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concretewalls, the barred door and—     You! a hoarse voice bellowed.     Grab him! someone yelled.     Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attemptto regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at alever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figuresas the carrier shot away through the cell wall.      III     Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in theclear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There was notelling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hidethe carrier, then—     A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume.Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction.     The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign ofmechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulouslandscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against thedeafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once.If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan workedthe controls, dropping toward the distant earth.     The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, broughtthe carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last fewinches and cut the switch.     As the glow died, the siren faded into silence.     Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noisewas, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestriansin the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, whyhadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or nosound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to asecluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in,reached for the controls—     There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dialsbefore him frosted over. There was a loud      pop!     like a flashbulbexploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectanglewhich hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, fadedto blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in atight-fitting white uniform stepped through.     Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed face,the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curlyred-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neatpillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-setyellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened ina smile which showed square yellowish teeth.           Alors, monsieur     , the new-comer said, bending his knees and back ina quick bow.       Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas?          No compree, Dan choked out Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay....     My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me.Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Classfive, Inter-dimensional Monitor Service.     That siren, Dan said. Was that you?     Dzhackoon nodded. For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined tostop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable.     What outfit did you say you were with? Dan asked.     The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service.     Inter-what?     Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best ourlanguage coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary.     What do you want with me?  <doc-sep></s>","Dan first meets Blote when he finally stops the carrier. Blote is a giant, strange man with a beachball-like head and many fingers, with a mouth above his eyes. Dan is immediately intimidated and fascinated by Blote, and Blote, aware of his superiority, requests that Dan replace Manny and Fiorello in the art stealing scheme. When Dan refuses, Blote orders that he find him a time machine and threatens to punish him for trespassing. Dan manages to fool Blote, but the two have an imbalanced power relationship, where Blote is much more powerful than Dan. "
"<s>     THE STAR-SENT KNAVES       BY KEITH LAUMER     Illustrated by Gaughan     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When the Great Galactic Union first encounters     Earth ... is this what is going to happen?      I     Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one.     Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings.     That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you.     Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers.     Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it—     Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today!     Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded.     Now, wait a minute— Kelly started.     What's that? Snithian cut in.     You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night—     Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped.     —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished.     Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside.     The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken.     By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault.     Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees.     I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover.     Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door.     Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work?     A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded.     Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet.  <doc-sep>Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently,in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan grittedhis teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage.Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cookwaddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowlyfrom the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated asecond ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall.     Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest aninch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled somuch as a minute into the past or future.     He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled Forwardand another labeled Back, but all the levers were plain, unadornedblack. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker typeknife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance ofsomething thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, itworked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in theusual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be heresomewhere....     Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall.     A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. Inanother second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan neededa few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls.He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced throughthe wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the leverback. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, afour-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table—     The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Notover eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell with the bluelight playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon,and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennisracquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan andthe cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple,and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt.     Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid thezipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot towardthe outer wall as the girl reached behind her back....     Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hoveringtwenty feet above a clipped lawn.     He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved thecage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man steppedout on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his faceup—     Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in aplain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planterfilled with glowing blue plants—     The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as shetook a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-squaresunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside,seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled—     With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, thecage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off withan acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for thecontrols, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushedon, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared upfifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it—     He covered his ears, braced himself—     With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of thecage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop.Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud      click!     and the glow faded.     With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around ata simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered throughelaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a pottedplant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the farside of the room a desk. And behind the desk—Something.      II     Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso like ahundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him frompoints eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfoldedand reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss threepeanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened justabove the brown eyes.     Who're you? a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor.     I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor.     What happened to Manny and Fiorello?     They—I—There was this cop. Kelly—     Oh-oh. The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered handsclosed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer.     Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted, the basso voice said. Apity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still.... A noise like anamplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth.     How ... what...?     The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below acritical value, the voice said. A necessary measure to discouragebig ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how youhappen to be aboard the carrier, by the way?     I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police ... Iwent for help, Dan finished lamely.     Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one'sanonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps atpresent. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings?     Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make outthe vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headedgiraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a facesimilar to the beachball behind the desk, with red circles paintedaround the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fireinto a black sky.     Too bad. The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted,caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked upto catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busilyat work studying the ceiling.     I hope, the voice said, that you ain't harboring no reactionaryracial prejudices.  <doc-sep>Now that the virus diseases had been licked, people hardly evergot sick any more and, when they did, it was mostly psychosomatic.Life was so well organized that there weren't even many accidentsthese days. It was a safe, orderly existence for those who fittedinto it—which accounted for more than ninety-five per cent of thepopulation. The only ones who didn't adjust were those who couldn't,like me—psi-deficients, throwbacks to an earlier era. There were nophysical cripples, because anybody could have a new arm or a new leggrafted on, but you couldn't graft psi powers onto an atavism or, ifyou could, the technique hadn't been developed yet.     I feel a sense of impending doom brooding over this household, myyoungest brother remarked cheerfully as he vaulted into his chair.     You always do, Timothy, my mother said, unfolding her napkin. And Imust say it's not in good taste, especially at breakfast.     He reached for his juice. Guess this is a doomed household. And whatwas all that emotional uproar about?     The usual, Sylvia said from the doorway before anyone else couldanswer. She slid warily into her chair. Hey, Dan, I'm here! shecalled. If anything else comes in, it comes in manually, understand?     Oh, all right. Dan emerged from the kitchen with a tray of foodfloating ahead of him.     The usual? Trouble with Kev? Tim looked at me narrowly. Somehow mysense of ominousness is connected with him.     Well, that's perfectly natural— Sylvia began, then stopped as Mothercaught her eye.     I didn't mean that, Tim said. I still say Kev's got something wecan't figure out.     You've been saying that for years, Danny protested, and he's beentested for every faculty under the Sun. He can't telepath or teleportor telekinesthesize or even teletype. He can't precognize or prefix orprepossess. He can't—     Strictly a bundle of no-talent, that's me, I interrupted, trying tokeep my animal feelings from getting the better of me. That was how myfamily thought of me, I knew—as an animal, and not a very lovable one,either.     No, Tim said, he's just got something we haven't developed a testfor. It'll come out some day, you'll see. He smiled at me.  <doc-sep></s>","Dan first proposes to Snithian that he take on the job of guarding his art vault at night in order to catch the mysterious,  serial art thieves. Snithian declines, but Kelly, head of security, accepts, and that night Dan is settled into the vault. After a few hours, Dan is shocked to see a machine appear out of thin air, where two men appear to steal the art. Dan believes this is a time machine, but Kelly suddenly arrives and threatens to arrest Dan, believing he is part of an inside job. Dan attempts to escape with the carrier, and after a few detours, he ends up in the office of a large man named Blote. He asks Blote about the carrier, implying that it is a time machine, but Blote demands that Dan supply him with a time machine, as his people have never seen one. Dan leads Blote back to the Snithian office, where Manny and Fiorello see him, but he manages to escape once again. Then, Dan hears a siren as the carrier hurdles through the air, and he is met by a man who says he is from the Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. "
"<s>     THE STAR-SENT KNAVES       BY KEITH LAUMER     Illustrated by Gaughan     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When the Great Galactic Union first encounters     Earth ... is this what is going to happen?      I     Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one.     Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings.     That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you.     Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers.     Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it—     Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today!     Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded.     Now, wait a minute— Kelly started.     What's that? Snithian cut in.     You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night—     Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped.     —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished.     Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside.     The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken.     By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault.     Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees.     I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover.     Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door.     Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work?     A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded.     Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet.  <doc-sep>I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of theplace. I've been told you can supply me with a—     He coughed. Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible. He fingeredhis mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. Busy executives oftencome to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements.Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see themerchandise ourselves— He wiped his hands on his trousers. Now wereyou interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?     I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back doorfor Utility models.     Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very carefulworkmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practicallycomplete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work,you know. Social engagements, conferences—     I was shaking my head. I want a      Super     Deluxe model, I told him.     He grinned and winked. Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication.Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Veryawkward—     I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems wereany affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.     We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to ourlaboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But Ican assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted.     The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless,brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of allsorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finallyhe was finished. I went on to the laboratory.     And that was all there was to it.  <doc-sep>Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room.     He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.       Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight.     When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped.     He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.     Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.     Whimpering, he fled.  <doc-sep></s>","The main piece of equipment used in the story is the carrier that Manny and Fiorello arrive in. The carrier contains lots of different levers and controls that make it difficult to navigate. It is able to appear out of thin air, a cage-like structure that has a blue luminous glow to it. Despite the futuristic abilities of the carrier, it is made up of common parts and is not the sturdiest. The carrier is able to appear in random places, but it is also used by Blote to travel to Maple Street."